THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 


William  3TaIw 


CONCERNING  SALLY. 

THE  INDIAN  BOOK.     Illustrated. 

TH&  MEDDLINGS  OF  EVE. 

OLD  HARBOR. 

THE  CLAMMER. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


CONCERNING  SALLY 


CONCERNING 
SALLY 

BY 

WILLIAM  JOHN  HOPKINS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

Cbe  ttibcraibc  press  Cambridge 
1912 


COPYRIGHT,    1912,    BY   WILLIAM  JOHN  HOPKINS 


ALL    RIGHTS    RESERVED 


Published  September  IQI2 


BOOK  I 


939833 


CONCERNING  SALLY 


CHAPTER   I 

PROFESSOR  LADUE  sat  at  his  desk,  in  his  own  room, 
looking  out  of  the  window.  What  he  might  have  seen 
out  of  that  window  was  enough,  one  would  think,  to 
make  any  man  contented  with  his  lot,  especially  a  man  of 
the  ability  of  Professor  Ladue.  He  had  almost  attained  to 
eminence  in  his  own  line,  which,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  is  all 
that  any  of  us  can  hope  to  attain  to  —  each  in  his  own  line. 

Out  of  Professor  Ladue's  window  there  might  have  been 
seen,  first,  a  huge  tree,  the  leaves  upon  which  were  fast  turn 
ing  from  the  deep  green  of  late  summer  to  a  deep  copper 
brown  with  spots  of  brilliant  yellow.  If  his  eyes  were  weary 
of  resting  in  the  shadow  of  that  great  tree,  his  gaze  might  go 
farther  and  fare  no  worse:  to  other  trees,  not  too  thickly 
massed,  each  in  the  process  of  turning  its  own  particular 
color  and  each  of  them  attaining  to  eminence  in  its  own  line 
without  perceptible  effort ;  to  the  little  river  which  serenely 
pursued  its  winding  and  untroubled  course ;  or  to  the  distant 
hills. 

But  Professor  Ladue,  it  is  to  be  feared,  saw  none  of  these 
things.  He  was  unconscious  of  the  vista  before  his  eyes. 
A  slight  smile  was  on  his  handsome  face,  but  the  smile  was 
not  altogether  a  pleasant  one.  He  withdrew  his  gaze  and 
glanced  distastefully  about  the  room:  at  the  small  bundle 
of  papers  on  his  desk,  representing  his  work;  at  the  skull 
which  adorned  the  desk  top;  at  the  half-mounted  skeleton 
of  some  small  reptile  of  a  prehistoric  age  lying  between  the 
windows;  at  his  bed.  It  was  an  inoffensive  bed;  merely  a 
narrow  cot,  tucked  out  of  the  way  as  completely  as  might 


4  CONCERNING   SALLY 

be.  Professor  Ladue  did  not  care  for  luxury,  at  any  rate 
not  in  beds,  so  long  as  they  were  comfortable,  and  the  bed 
took  up  very  little  room,  which  was  important. 

As  his  glance  took  in  these  things,  a  slight  expression  of 
disgust  took  the  place  of  the  smile,  for  a  moment;  then  the 
smile  returned.  All  expressions  in  which  Professor  Ladue 
indulged  were  slight.  There  was  nothing  the  matter  with 
him.  He  was  only  tired  of  work  —  temporarily  sick  of  the 
sight  of  it;  which  is  not  an  unusual  state  of  mind,  for  any 
of  us.  It  may  be  deplored  or  it  may  be  regarded  as  merely 
the  normal  state  of  rebellion  of  a  healthy  mind  at  too  much 
work.  That  depends  largely  upon  where  we  draw  the  line. 
We  might  not  all  draw  it  where  Professor  Ladue  drew  it. 
And  he  did  not  deplore  the  state  of  mind  in  which  he  found 
himself.  It  was  a  state  of  mind  in  which  he  was  finding  him 
self  with  growing  frequency,  and  when  he  was  in  it  his  sole 
wish  was  to  be  diverted. 

He  opened  a  drawer  in  his  desk,  dumped  therein  the 
papers,  and,  removing  from  it  a  box  of  cigarettes,  took  one 
and  slipped  the  box  into  his  pocket.  After  various  tappings 
and  gentle  thumpings  in  the  manner  of  your  cigarette- 
smoker,  designed,  I  suppose,  to  remove  some  of  the  tobacco 
which  the  maker  had  carefully  put  into  it,  the  cigarette 
seemed  to  be  considered  worthy  of  his  lips.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  it  was.  So  he  lighted  it,  cast  the  match  thoughtfully 
into  the  empty  grate,  and  rose  slowly. 

He  dawdled  a  minute  at  the  window,  looked  at  his  watch, 
muttered  briefly,  and  went  briskly  out  and  down  the  stairs. 

He  took  his  overcoat  from  the  rack  in  the  hall  and  removed 
the  cigarette  from  his  lips  for  a  moment. 

"Sarah!  "he  called  curtly. 

His  voice  was  clear  and  penetrating  and  full  of  authority. 
If  I  had  been  Sarah,  the  quality  of  that  one  word,  as  he 
uttered  it,  would  have  filled  me  with  resentment.  A  door 
almost  at  his  elbow  opened  quickly  and  a  girl  appeared. 
She  was  well  grown  and  seemed  to  be  about  twelve.  She 
was  really  ten. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  5 

"What  is  it,  father?"  she  asked;  I  had  almost  said  that 
she  demanded  it,  but  there  was  no  lack  of  respect  in  her 
voice.  "  Please  don't  disturb  mother.  She  has  a  headache. 
I'm  taking  care  of  Charlie.  What  is  it?" 

"Oh,  Sally,"  he  said.  It  appeared  as  if  he  might  even  be 
afraid  of  her,  just  a  little,  with  her  seriousness  and  her  direct 
ways  and  her  great  eyes  that  seemed  to  see  right  through 
a  man.  He  gave  a  little  laugh  which  he  intended  to  be  light. 
It  was  n't.  "Oh,  all  right,  Sally.  You're  a  very  good  girl, 
my  dear." 

Sally  did  not  smile,  but  looked  at  him  steadily,  waiting 
for  him  to  say  what  he  had  to  say. 

"Tell  your  mother,  Sally,"  the  professor  went  on,  "that 
I  find  I  have  to  go  into  town  to  attend  to  an  important  mat 
ter  at  the  college.  I  may  be  late  in  getting  out.  In  fact,  she 
must  n't  be  worried  if  I  don't  come  to-night.  It  is  possible 
that  I  may  be  kept  too  late  for  the  last  train.  I  am  sorry 
that  she  has  a  headache.  They  seem  to  be  getting  more 
frequent." 

Sally  bowed  her  head  gravely.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "they  do." 

"Well,  tell  her  that  I  am  very  sorry.  If  I  could  do  any 
thing  for  her,  I  should,  of  course,  be  only  too  happy.  But  I 
can't  and  there  does  n't  appear  to  be  any  good  purpose 
served  by  my  giving  up  my  trip  to  town."  In  this  the  pro 
fessor  may,  conceivably,  have  been  wrong.  "Give  her  my 
message,  my  dear,  and  take  good  care  of  Charlie.  Good-bye, 
Sally." 

The  professor  stooped  and  imprinted  a  cold  kiss  upon  her 
forehead.  Sally  received  it  impassively  without  expressing 
any  emotion  whatever. 

"Good-bye,  father,"  she  said.   "I  will  tell  mother." 

Professor  Ladue  went  out  and  walked  jauntily  down  the 
road  toward  the  station.  No  good  purpose  will  be  served, 
to  use  his  own  words,  by  following  him  farther  at  this  time. 
Sally  went  soberly  back  to  the  library,  where  she  had  left 
Charlie;  she  went  very  soberly,  indeed.  No  Charlie  was  to 
be  seen ;  but,  with  a  skill  born  of  experience,  she  dived  under 


6  CONCERNING  SALLY 

the  sofa  and  haled  him  forth,  covered  with  dust  and  squeal 
ing  at  the  top  of  his  lungs. 

"I  hided,"  he  shouted. 

"Sh — h,  Charlie.  You'll  disturb  mother.  Poor  mother's 
got  a  pain  in  her  head."  The  sombre  gray  eyes  suddenly 
filled  with  tears,  and  she  hugged  the  boy  tight.  "Oh, 
Charlie,  Charlie!  I'm  afraid  that  father's  going  to  do  it 
again." 

Charlie  whimpered  in  sympathy.  Perhaps,  too,  Sally 
had  hugged  him  too  tight  for  comfort.  His  whimper  was 
becoming  a  wail  when  she  succeeded  in  hushing  him.  Then 
she  heard  a  soft  step  coming  slowly  down  the  stairs. 

"Now,  Charlie,"  she  said  reproachfully,  "it's  too  bad. 
Here's  mother  coming  down.  I  wish,"  she  began,  impa 
tiently;  then  she  checked  herself  suddenly,  for  the  boy's 
lips  were  puckering.  "Never  mind.  Laugh,  now." 

It  is  not  strange  that  the  boy  could  not  accommodate 
himself  to  such  sudden  changes.  He  was  only  six.  But  he 
tried  faithfully,  and  would  have  succeeded  if  he  had  been 
given  more  time.  The  door  opened  gently. 

"Sally,  dear,"  said  a  soft  voice,  "I  thought  that  I  heard 
the  front  door  shut.  Has  your  father  gone  out?" 

Mrs.  Ladue  was  gentle  and  pretty  and  sweet-looking;  and 
with  a  tired  look  about  the  eyes  that  seldom  left  her  now. 
She  had  not  had  that  look  about  the  eyes  when  she  married 
young  Mr.  Ladue,  thirteen  years  before.  There  were  few 
women  who  would  not  have  had  it  if  they  had  been  married 
to  him  for  thirteen  years.  That  had  been  a  mistake,  as  it 
had  turned  out.  For  his  own  good,  as  well  as  hers,  he  should 
have  had  a  different  kind  of  a  wife:  none  of  your  soft,  gentle 
women,  but  a  woman  who  could  habitually  bully  him  into 
subjection  and  enjoy  the  process.  The  only  difficulty  about 
that  is  that  he  would  never  have  married  a  woman  who 
habitually  bullied.  He  wanted  to  do  any  bullying  that  there 
was  to  be  done.  Not  that  he  actually  did  any,  as  it  is  usually 
understood,  but  there  was  that  in  his  manner  that  led  one  to 
think  that  it  was  just  beneath  the  surface;  and  by  "one" 


CONCERNING  SALLY  7 

I  mean  his  wife  and  daughter,  —  no  doubt,  I  should  have 
said  "two."  As  for  Sally,  the  traditional  respect  that  is  due 
a  father  from  a  daughter  was  all  that  prevented  her  from 
finding  out  whether  it  was  there.  To  be  sure,  his  manner 
toward  her  was  different.  It  seemed  almost  as  if  he  were 
afraid  of  Sally;  afraid  of  his  own  daughter,  aged  ten. 
Stranger  things  have  happened. 

If  Mrs.  Ladue  knew  that  she  had  made  a  mistake,  thir 
teen  years  before,  she  never  acknowledged  it  to  herself  when 
she  thought  of  her  children.  She  beckoned  Charlie  to  her 
now. 

"Come  here,  darling  boy,"  she  said,  stooping. 

Charlie  came,  with  a  rush,  and  threw  his  arms  about  his 
mother's  neck. 

"Oh,  Charlie,"  cried  Sally  quickly,  "remember  mother's 
head.  Be  careful!" 

Mrs.  Ladue  smiled  gently.  "Never  mind,  Sally.  Let  him 
be  as  he  is.  It  makes  my  head  no  worse  to  have  my  little  boy 
hugging  me.  Has  your  father  gone  out?"  she  asked  again. 

Sally's  eyes  grew  resentful.  "Yes,"  she  answered.  "He 
left  a  message  for  you.  He  said  I  was  to  tell  you  that  he 
was  very  sorry  you  had  a  headache  and  that  if  he  could  do 
anything  for  you  he  would  be  only  too  happy."  Sally's 
voice  insensibly  took  on  a  mocking  quality.  "And  —  and 
there  was  something  about  his  being  called  into  town  by 
pressing  matters  and  you  were  not  to  be  worried  if  he  missed 
the  last  train  and  —  and — "  She  burst  into  a  passion  of 
tears.  "Oh,  mother,  dear,  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  I 'm 
afraid  he'll  come  back  like  —  like — "  Her  whole  form 
quivered  with  the  energy  of  her  utterance.  There  was  no 
doubt  that  she  meant  what  she  said  so  violently.  "  I  hate  —  " 

"Hush,  darling,  hush!  Never  say  that."  Mrs.  Ladue 
drew  her  little  daughter  close  and  patted  her  shoulder. 

Sally's  crying  ceased  abruptly,  but  the  muscles  were  all 
tense  under  her  mother's  hand.  She  smiled  bravely. 

"Now,  mother,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  have  made  it  worse, 
have  n't  I  ?  I  did  n't  mean  to  do  that  —  to  cry.  Truly,  I 


8  CONCERNING  SALLY 

did  n't.  I  won't  ever  do  it  again."  She  put  one  arm 
about  her  mother's  neck  and  stroked  her  forehead  gently. 
"Mother,  darling,  does  n't  it  make  your  head  just  a  little 
better  to  have  your  little  daughter  hu — hug — ging  you, 
too?"  And  she  hid  her  face  in  her  mother's  neck. 

Mrs.  Ladue's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  "My  dearest  little 
daughter!"  she  murmured,  kissing  her.  "If  only  you  could 
be  happy !  If  only  you  did  n't  take  things  so  to  heart ! 
Mother's  own  dear  little  girl ! "  She  rose  and  spoke  brightly. 
"Now,  let's  all  go  out  into  this  lovely  day  and  be  happy 
together." 

Sally  smiled.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "we'll  all  be  happy  to 
gether.  Don't  you  think,  mother,  that  it  will  make  your 
head  better?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Ladue,  "I  think  it  will." 

So  they  went  out  to  the  trees  and  the  river  and  the  hills. 
But  Sally  did  not  skip.  Charlie,  it  is  to  be  noted,  did; 
Charlie,  who  had  said  nothing  about  being  happy.  It  is  to 
be  presumed  that  they  were  all  ecstatically  happy;  for  had 
they  not  assured  one  another  that  they  would  be? 


CHAPTER   II 

IT  is  to  be  feared  that  Professor  Ladue  had  gone  and  done 
it  again,  as  Sally  said.  Not  that  Sally  knew  what  "it" 
was,  nor  did  her  mother  know,  either.  Indeed,  Mrs. 
Ladue  made  no  inquiries  concerning  that  point,  being  glad  to 
put  the  most  favorable  construction  possible  upon  the  matter 
and,  perhaps,  afraid  that  she  would  not  be  able  to  do  so  if 
she  knew  any  more.  Perhaps,  too,  she  realized  that,  unless 
she  pursued  her  inquiries  among  comparative  strangers, 
she  would  learn  nothing.  The  professor  would  lie  freely 
and  skillfully,  assuming  that  he  considered  it  necessary  or 
desirable  to  lie,  and  might  be  led  to  bully  a  little.  Whatever 
course  he  might  take,  she  would  be  no  better  off.  So,  as 
I  said,  she  made  no  inquiries,  which  may  have  been  wise  or 
it  may  not;  and  she  kept  on  hoping,  although  each  occasion 
left  her  with  less  ground  for  any  reasonable  hope. 

At  all  events,  Professor  Ladue  came  back  early  the  next 
afternoon  in  the  most  fiendish  temper,  which  may  have  been 
due  to  excess  in  any  of  its  customary  forms.  Whatever  the 
exact  cause,  the  effect  was,  apparently,  to  make  him  hate 
himself  and  everybody  with  whom  he  came  in  contact.  Mrs. 
Ladue  was  aware  of  the  state  of  mind  that  he  would  be  in, 
from  experience,  I  suppose;  an  experience  which  she  did 
not  seem  at  all  anxious  to  repeat.  Sally  was  aware  of  it,  too, 
and  even  Charlie  seemed  to  realize  that  any  meeting  with 
his  father  was  to  be  avoided.  So  it  happened  that  Professor 
Ladue  found  the  way  into  the  house  and  to  his  room  unob 
structed.  His  wife  and  his  children  were  nowhere  to  be 
seen;  which  circumstance,  in  itself,  annoyed  him  exceed 
ingly,  although  it  is  probable  that  he  would  have  found  their 
presence  equally  annoying. 

Once  in  his  room,  he  paced  to  and  fro  for  a  few  minutes, 


io  CONCERNING  SALLY 

nervously ;  then  he  took  off  his  coat  and  bathed  his  head  and 
face  with  cold  water,  pouring  it  over  his  head  repeatedly. 
When  he  had  rubbed  his  head  partially  dry  he  appeared  to 
feel  somewhat  better,  and  he  seated  himself,  frowning,  at 
his  desk,  and  tried  to  apply  himself  to  his  work.  In  this,  as 
he  undoubtedly  expected,  he  was  not  very  successful.  He 
would  not  have  expected  one  of  his  own  students  to  be  able 
to  apply  himself  to  work  with  any  success  under  similar 
circumstances,  whatever  those  circumstances  were.  So  he 
pushed  his  work  aside  with  some  impatience,  got  up,  took 
the  skull  from  the  desk  and  handled  it  absently.  The  feel 
of  the  skull  seemed  to  suggest  some  ideas  to  him,  for  he  put 
it  down,  went  to  the  half-mounted  skeleton  of  that  ancient 
reptile  that  I  have  mentioned  as  lying  between  his  windows, 
and  began  to  work  in  earnest. 

He  soon  became  interested;  so  much  interested  that  he 
was  forgetting  about  his  head,  which  felt  as  if  it  had  been 
pounded  with  hammers,  —  tiny  hammers  which  had  not 
yet  finished  their  work,  whatever  it  was,  —  and  he  was  for 
getting  about  his  eyes,  which  ached  as  if  the  pressure  of 
blood  behind  the  eyeballs  was  forcing  them  out  of  his  head. 
He  did  n't  know  but  it  was ;  but  it  did  n't  matter.  And  he 
was  forgetting  about  his  body,  every  bone  and  muscle  of 
which  was  crying  out  for  rest  and  sleep.  He  sat  there,  on  the 
floor  under  one  of  his  windows,  puzzling  over  a  bone  which 
he  held  in  his  hand,  and  completely  absorbed. 

Suddenly  he  glanced  involuntarily  out  of  the  window. 
There  sat  Sally,  astride  a  limb  of  the  great  tree,  looking  in 
at  him  intently.  She  was  a  most  annoying  child ;  yes,  a  most 
devilishly  annoying  child.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  threw 
up  the  window,  almost  in  one  motion.  Sally  did  not  move 
a  muscle ;  not  even  her  eyes.  He  did  not  say  the  sharp  things 
that  were  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue,  he  could  not  have  told 
why;  he  did  not  say  anything  for  very  nearly  a  minute. 
Under  such  circumstances,  a  minute  is  a  long  time.  Nor 
did  Sally  say  anything.  She  only  gazed  solemnly  at  him. 

"Sally,"  he  demanded  at  last,  "what  are  you  doing 


CONCERNING  SALLY  11 

there?  "  The  look  in  his  eyes  had  softened.  You  might  have 
mistaken  it  for  a  look  of  affection. 

"Nothing,  father,"  Sally  answered,  briefly  and  respect 
fully. 

"Well,  what  the — "  Professor  Ladue  was  at  a  loss  for 
words  in  which  to  express  his  exasperation.  This  was  an 
unusual  condition  for  him  to  be  in.  "Well,  why  don't  you 
get  down?" 

"  I  don't  want  to  get  down,"  Sally  returned.  "I  like  being 
up  here." 

"You'll  break  your  neck." 

Sally  made  no  reply. 

"Can  you  get  down  safely?" 

"Yes,  father." 

"Get  down,  then,"  said  Professor  Ladue,  less  sharply  than 
he  had  meant  to  speak.  "Don't  you  know  that  it  must 
annoy  me  very  much  to  have  you  spying  in  upon  me  in  that 
way?" 

"No,  father,  I  didn't  know  it  annoyed  you,"  replied 
Sally  in  a  colorless  voice.  "  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  I  was  n't 
spying  on  you.  I  was  only  enjoying  myself.  I  won't  do  it 
again." 

Sally  began  slipping  and  sliding  and  scrambling  down  the 
tree.  She  seemed  to  have  no  fear  and  to  be  very  familiar 
with  the  road  she  was  taking.  She  knew  every  foothold. 
Her  father  watched  her  as  she  went  from  one  insecure  hold 
to  another.  It  must  have  appeared  to  him  a  perilous  descent, 
one  would  suppose;  but  I  do  not  know  what  he  thought. 
At  all  events,  he  called  to  her  when  she  had  swung  off  the 
lowest  branch  and  dropped  safely.  He  still  had  in  his  hand 
that  prehistoric  bone. 

"Sally!"  he  called;  "don't  you  want  to  come  up  here?" 

Sally  looked  up,  evidently  greatly  surprised.  She  was  not 
easily  surprised. 

"To  your  room?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  replied  her  father  impatiently,  "of  course.  To  my 
room." 


12  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"  Do  you  want  me  to?  "  Sally  is  to  be  excused  for  pressing 
the  point.  She  did  not  wish  to  make  any  mistake.  Mistakes 
had  been  made  before. 

"I  should  be  greatly  pleased,"  said  the  professor,  smiling 
and  bowing  airily.  "I  should  consider  it  a  great  honor  if 
Miss  Sally  Ladue  would  favor  me  with  her  company  at  the 
present  juncture."  He  leaned  a  little  out  of  the  window. 
"You  know  I  am  working  on  the  skeleton." 

"Yes,"  said  Sally.   "I'll  come  up  right  away." 

It  is  to  be  noted  that  Sally  had  not  answered  the  exact 
question  which  the  professor  had  asked  her.  She  may  have 
been  reluctant  to  answer  it  just  as  it  was  asked.  It  is  to  be 
supposed  that  she  was  aware  of  the  question  and  that  she 
knew  the  answer.  Sally  was  a  truthful  young  person,  but 
she  preferred  to  take  the  course  that  made  for  peace  if  it 
was  consistent  with  truth.  The  professor  did  not  press  the 
matter. 

He  was  again  sitting  on  the  floor  when  Sally  knocked  on 
the  door  and  came  in.  His  head  was  a  little  better.  Perhaps 
the  tiny  hammers  had  nearly  finished  their  work.  At  all 
events,  he  soon  forgot  it  completely. 

"Sally,"  he  said,  after  he  had  been  working  for  some  min 
utes  and  Sally  had  been  watching  him  in  silence,  "what  do 
you  think  this  is?" 

"  I  don't  know,  father,"  she  answered.  "  Is  it  a  —  an 
alligator?" 

"No,"  he  said,  stopping  and  looking  thoughtfully  at  the 
skeleton.  "No,  it  is  not  an  alligator,  although  you  came 
nearer  than  I  should  have  thought  you  would.  You  were 
just  barely  warm,  Sally.  It  is  a  distant  relative  of  the  alli 
gator;  perhaps  I  should  call  it  a  connection.  The  thirteenth 
cousin  of  his  hundred  thousandth  great-grandfather,  or 
something  like  that.  It  is  a  sort  of  a  lizard,  Sally.  It  is  a 
very  small  one." 

"Oh!"  cried  Sally.  "A  small  one!  A  small  lizard!  Why, 
father!" 

Professor  Ladue  smiled.  "  It  lived  a  great  many  thousands 


CONCERNING  SALLY  13 

of  years  ago.  Nobody  knows  how  many  thousands  of  years, 
although  they  will  tell  you  very  glibly.  They  don't  know 
anything  about  it  except  that  it  was  a  long  time.  /  know 
that.  This  little  lizard  is  a  kind  that  nobody  has  ever  dis 
covered;  nobody  except  me.  It  is  my  lizard.  It  must  be 
known  by  my  name.  What  do  you  think  of  that,  Sally?" 

"It  must  be  very  fine,"  Sally  murmured,  "to  discover 
things." 

"At  that  far-off  time,"  the  professor  continued,  "there 
were  lots  of  great  horrid  creeping  and  flying  things.  Even 
my  little  lizard  may  have  been  able  to  fly.  See !  These  seem 
to  be  the  beginning  of  his  wing  bones.  There  are  some  bones 
missing,  so  that  I  can't  tell,  yet,  whether  he  had  wings  that 
would  bear  him  up.  But  probably  he  had.  Probably  he 
had."  And  the  professor  relapsed  into  a  thoughtful  silence. 

"  Father,"  said  Sally  presently.  She  had  been  thinking  and 
her  interest  in  the  skeleton  was  more  active  than  it  had  been. 

The  professor  looked  up.  "Any  question  that  Miss  Ladue 
has  to  ask,"  he  observed,  "will  be  cheerfully  answered,  pro 
vided  that  I  know  the  answer.  If  I  do  not  know  the  answer, 
and  have  the  courage  to  say  so,  I  trust  she  will  not  regard 
me  as  wholly  ignorant  of  the  subject." 

Sally  gave  vent  to  a  chuckle  which  was  entirely  unex 
pected  ;  entirely  unexpected  by  herself,  at  least. 

"Father,"  she  asked,  as  soon  as  she  had  managed  to  sup 
press  her  chuckles, "  then  could  your  little  lizard  fly  up  high?  " 

"Yep,"  he  answered;  "like  a  pigeon.  Or,  more  probably, 
he  flew  more  like  a  bat  than  like  a  pigeon." 

"Right  up  into  the  tops  of  the  trees?" 

"Right  up  into  the  topmost  branches  of  the  coal  trees." 

"The  coal  trees!" 

"The  coal  trees.  Fed  on  the  fruit.  Large  lizards  custom 
arily  ate  furnace  coal,  middle-sized  lizards  ate  stove  coal. 
Little  lizards  ate  chestnut  coal." 

Sally  burst  into  an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter.  In  all 
her  experience  of  her  father,  she  had  never  known  him  to  be 
so  amusing. 


14  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"And  the  littlest  lizards?" 

"Ate  pea  coal,"  replied  the  professor  promptly,  "and  the 
tiniest  babies  ate  buckwheat  coal.  Very  nourishing,  chest 
nuts  and  peas  and  buckwheat.  Cracked  it  with  their  teeth." 

Sally  was  still  giggling. 

"Seriously,  Sally,"  said  the  professor,  with  a  change  of 
manner,  "by  the  coal  trees  I  meant  the  trees  which  have 
become  the  coal  we  are  burning  in  the  stove  and  the  furnace 
and  to  make  steam.  I  see  no  reason  to  doubt  that  this  little 
lizard  could  fly  up  into  the  tops  of  the  trees.  Perhaps  he 
actually  alighted  on  some  tree  which  we  now  have  down 
cellar  in  the  coal  bin." 

"Oh!  "cried  Sally.  "Let's  suppose  he  did.  And  what  did 
he  see  from  his  topmost  branch?" 

"Very  little,"  replied  the  professor,  "except  treetops  and 
a  swamp  of  two." 

"Well,"  said  Sally,  "it's  rather  disappointing.  But  I  wish 
I  could  have  seen  it." 

"Then,"  said  her  father  solemnly,  "there  would  now  be 
nothing  left  of  you  but  a  skeleton  which  I  would  be  puzzling 
my  brains  over.  It  would  be  somewhat  disconcerting,  Sally, 
to  find  a  skeleton  of  a  little  girl  among  these  bones  of  a  past 
age;  very  disconcerting,  indeed,  to  find  that  of  Miss  Sally 
Ladue." 

"But  how  would  you  know  it  was  Miss  Sally  Ladue's 
skeleton?"  asked  Sally,  her  eyes  twinkling. 

"That  is  a  poser,"  her  father  answered.  "I  should  know 
it,  though.  If  there  were  no  other  means  of  identifying  it, 
I  should  know  it  for  Miss  Ladue's  by  the  large  bump  of 
inquisitiveness  on  the  skull." 

"What's  my  bump  of  inquisitiveness?" 

The  professor  turned  towards  her.  "Hand  me  that  skull 
on  my  desk,  and  I'll  show  you."  Sally  obediently  handed 
him  the  skull.  "There  it  is,"  he  continued.  "  You  can  see  it, 
although  it  is  not  as  large  as  your  own.  Come  here  and  let 
us  see  if  it  is." 

Sally  came. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  15 

"The  phrenologists,"  he  began,  feeling  of  her  head, 
"would  — hello!" 

"Ouch ! "  cried  Sally,  squirming  but  giggling  irrepressibly, 
nevertheless. 

"It  is  a  very  large  bump,"  said  the  professor  gravely; 
"unexpectedly  large,  even  for  you.  What  makes  it  so  large, 
Sally?" 

"I  —  I  fell  out  of  a  tree  yesterday,"  Sally  said.  "I  sup 
pose  it  was  that." 

"Ah,  yes,"  the  professor  returned;  "and  because  the 
bump  was  so  large  by  nature  it  stuck  out  in  a  most  inappro 
priate  and  uncomfortable  way  and  was  made  more  inap 
propriate  and  uncomfortable.  It  might  be  safer  for  you  if 
you  could  fly,  like  my  little  lizard." 

"I  wish  I  could,"  said  Sally;  "I  wish  I  could  fly  into  the 
top  of  any  tree  I  wanted  to." 

"You  find  the  trees  very  attractive?" 

"Yes,  I  do,"  Sally  replied,  simply.  "You  can  see  a  lot 
from  the  top  of  a  tall  tree.  The  trouble  is  that  you  can't 
find  big  enough  branches  when  you  get  nearly  to  the  top." 

"No,"  observed  the  professor,  "I  can't.  If  I  could,  I 
suppose  I  might  climb  trees  oftener.  It  is  very  disconcerting 
to  get  almost  up,  just  where  the  leaves  are  thickest,  and  find 
that  I  can't  get  any  higher  and  can't  see  anything  to  speak 
of,  either.  And  twigs  that  you  would  n't  hesitate  to  trust 
yourself  upon,  Sally,  are  not  nearly  big  enough  for  me. 
That,"  he  finished,  reflectively,  "is,  I  think,  the  only  reason 
why  I  have  given  up  tree-climbing  at  such  an  early  age." 

Sally  chuckled  delightedly.  "Did  you  climb  trees  when 
you  were  a  boy,  father?" 

"Huh!  Climb  trees!  Gracious,  yes.  Used  to  run  right  up 
one  side  and  down  the  other.  Tallest  trees  I  could  find,  too. 
Hundreds  of  feet  high.  Did  I  use  to  climb  trees!"  The  pro 
fessor  turned  away  in  excess  of  scorn. 

"Oh!"  cried  Sally,  clapping  her  hands. 

"Climb  trees!"  murmured  the  professor.  "Why,  there 
was  one  tree  that  I  remember  — " 


16  CONCERNING  SALLY 

He  was  interrupted,  at  this  point,  by  a  gentle  knock  at 
the  door. 

"That  sounds  like  your  mother's  knock,  Sally.  Will  you 
be  kind  enough  to  see?" 

It  was  Mrs.  Ladue.  She  had  heard  the  unaccustomed 
sounds  of  merriment  issuing  from  her  husband's  room  and 
had  come  up  —  rather  timidly,  it  must  be  confessed  —  to 
see  what  it  was  all  about.  If  her  heart  was  fluttering  a  little 
with  symptoms  of  hope,  as  she  came,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered 
at.  There  was  another  reason  for  her  coming,  although  she 
was  not  conscious  that  it  had  weight  with  her. 

She  was  half  smiling  as  she  entered;  half  smiling  in  a 
doubtful,  hesitating  sort  of  way,  ready  to  let  the  smile 
develop  in  its  own  lovely  manner  or  to  check  it  and  let  it 
fade  away,  according  to  circumstances.  Sally  held  tightly 
to  her  hand.  Professor  Ladue  got  upon  his  feet  with  more 
agility  than  would  have  been  expected  of  him. 

"Sally  and  I  were  having  a  session  with  my  lizard,"  he 
said,  "and  were  variously  entertaining  ourselves.  I  hope 
your  head  is  better,  Sarah." 

Mrs.  Ladue  appeared  to  see  some  reason  for  letting  her 
smile  take  its  natural  course.  It  was  a  very  lovely  smile, 
almost  tender.  Professor  Ladue  should  have  been  a  very 
proud  and  happy  man  that  it  was  for  him.  There  is  no  reason 
to  think  that  he  was. 

"Thank  you,  Charlie,"  she  replied.  "It  is  all  right,  to 
day.  Won't  you  and  Sally  go  on  with  your  session  and  let 
me  be  a  visitor?  It  must  have  been  a  very  amusing  session. 
I  don't  know  when  I  have  heard  Sally  laugh  so  much." 

Sally  clapped  her  hands  again.  "Oh,  do,"  she  said.  "You 
were  going  to  tell  me  about  a  tree,  father.  What  about  it?" 

Professor  Ladue  talked  much  nonsense  in  the  next  half- 
hour  and  was  surprisingly  gay;  and  Sally  sat,  holding  her 
mother's  hand,  and  smiling  and  chuckling  and  enjoying  it 
intensely.  Of  course  Mrs.  Ladue  enjoyed  it.  The  professor 
seemed  so  genial  and  care-free  that  she  reproached  herself 
for  her  doubts.  She  even  thought,  unfortunately,  that  it 


CONCERNING  SALLY  17 

was  a  favorable  time  for  asking  for  something  that  she  was 
very  much  in  need  of.  But  she  hesitated,  even  then. 

"Charlie,"  she  said  timidly,  as  they  were  going,  "can  you 
—  can  you  let  me  have  this  week's  money  for  the  house? 
Katie,  you  know,  —  we  owe  her  for  two  weeks,  and  there's 
the—" 

Professor  Ladue  interrupted  her.  "Money?"  he  said 
airily.  "Money?  What's  money?  Certainly,  my  dear. 
Help  yourself.  You  're  welcome  to  anything  you  find  there." 

He  tossed  her  his  pocketbook  and  turned  back  to  his 
skeleton.  Perhaps  it  was  to  hide  some  embarrassment;  per 
haps  it  was  only  to  indicate  that,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
the  incident  was  closed.  For  the  pocketbook  was  empty. 

Mrs.  Ladue  spoke  low  and  tried  hard  to  keep  any  hint  of 
reproach  out  of  her  voice.  "Did  you  —  did  you  lose  it?" 
she  asked. 

"I  suppose  I  must  have  lost  it,  if  there  was  anything  to 
lose,"  Professor  Ladue  replied  nonchalantly.  He  did  not 
turn  away  from  his  work. 

"And  —  and  did  you  notify  the  police?" 

"No,  my  dear,  I  have  not  notified  the  police,  yet."  He 
smiled  dryly  as  he  spoke.  "I  will  take  that  matter  under 
advisement." 

Mrs.  Ladue  did  not  push  the  question  further.  There 
were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  joined  Sally. 

"Oh,  mother,"  cried  Sally  joyously,  "wasn't  it  fun? 
Did  you  ever  know  that  father  could  be  so  funny?" 

"Yes,  darling  child.  He  was  full  of  fun  and  nonsense  before 
we  were  married,  and  for  some  years  after." 

She  bent  and  kissed  her  daughter,  but  would  say  no  more. 


CHAPTER   III 

SALLY  was  not  completely  deprived  of  the  society  of 
other  children,  although  her  temperament  made  this 
question  a  rather  difficult  one.  Her  father  did  not 
bother  himself  about  Sally's  goings  and  comings,  which  was 
quite  what  would  have  been  expected.  Indeed,  he  bothered 
himself  very  little  about  the  doings  of  his  family ;  as  a  general 
thing,  he  did  not  know  what  they  did,  nor  did  he  care,  so 
long  as  they  refrained  from  interference  with  his  own  actions. 
They  had  learned  to  do  that. 

Mrs.  Ladue  did  bother  herself  about  Sally's  doings  a  good 
deal,  in  spite  of  the  difficulty  of  the  question;  and  one  would 
have  thought  that  she  had  her  fill  of  difficult  questions.  She 
went  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  She  saw  Charlie  playing 
alone  near  the  foot  of  a  tree.  He  was  tied  to  the  tree  by  a 
long  string,  one  end  of  which  was  about  his  body,  under  his 
arms. 

"Charlie,"  she  called,  "where 's  Sally?" 

Charlie  looked  up,  impatiently,  and  shook  his  head.  Mrs. 
Ladue  repeated  her  question. 

"Up  there,"  he  answered,  pointing  into  the  tree  above  his 
head.  "And  I'm  a  giraffe  in  a  menagerie  and  giraffes  can't 
talk,  mother." 

"Oh,  excuse  me,  little  giraffe,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"Great,  big  giraffe.   Not  little  giraffe." 

Meanwhile  there  had  been  a  sound  of  scrambling  in  the 
tree  and  Sally  dropped  to  the  ground. 

"Did  you  want  me,  mother?"  she  asked. 

"I  only  thought  that  you  have  had  the  care  of  Charlie 
for  a  long  time.  Don't  you  want  to  go  up  to  Margaret 
Savage's  and  play  with  her?"  This  was,  perhaps,  the  hun 
dredth  time  that  Mrs.  Ladue  had  asked  that  question. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  19 

"No,  mother,"  Sally  replied,  also  for  the  hundredth  time, 
"  I  don't.  But  if  you  want  me  to  go,  I  will." 

Mrs.  Ladue  laughed  outright  at  her  daughter's  directness. 
"Why?"  she  asked.  " I  am  really  curious  to  know  why  you 
don't  like  to  play  with  other  little  girls." 

"They  are  so  stupid,  mother,"  Sally  answered  quietly. 
"I  have  a  lot  better  time  alone." 

"Well,  my  dear  little  daughter,"  began  Mrs.  Ladue, 
laughing  again;  and  there  she  stopped.  "I  should  like, 
Sally,  —  I  should  like  it  very  much,  if  I  could  manage  to 
send  you  to  dancing-school  this  winter." 

"Very  well,  mother,"  said  Sally  again. 

"But  I  don't  know  what  your  father  would  think  of  the 
idea." 

"No,"  Sally  returned.   "You  can't  ever  tell,  can  you?" 

"Would  n't  you  like  to  go  and  be  with  the  other  children 
and  do  what  they  do?" 

Sally  was  quite  serious.  "I  don't  think  it  would  be  very 
interesting,"  she  said.  "But  if  you  want  me  to  go,  I  will." 

Mrs.  Ladue  sighed;  then  she  laughed.  "Well,  Sally, 
dear,"  she  said,  "run  along  and  play  in  your  own  way.  At 
any  rate,  I  can  trust  you." 

"Yes,  mother,  dear,  you  can." 

And  Sally  ran  out,  quite  happy,  to  untie  the  giraffe. 

"What  you  goin'  to  do,  Sally?"  he  asked. 

"Giraffes  can't  talk,"  remarked  Sally. 

"Are  n't  a  giraffe.  I'm  the  keeper.  But  I'll  turn  into  a 
giraffe  again  as  soon  as  you  answer  me." 

"I'm  going  down  in  that  little  clump  by  the  wall,  where 
there  are  plenty  of  things  for  giraffes  to  eat." 

Reminded  that  he  was  hungry,  Charlie  began  to  cry. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Sally,  stopping  short. 

"  Don't  want  to  be  a  giraffe  and  eat  old  leaves  and  things," 
Charlie  wailed.  "Can't  I  have  some  gingerbread,  Sally?" 

"Well,  here,"  said  Sally.  She  took  from  her  pocket  some 
little  crackers,  which  she  gave  him.  "I  guess  those  won't 
hurt  you." 


20  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Charlie  made  no  reply,  being  busy  with  the  crackers ;  and 
Sally  led  him  into  the  clump  by  the  wall  and  tied  him. 

"Sally,"  asked  Charlie,  somewhat  anxiously,  "what  you 
goin'  to  do?" 

"  I  'm  going  up  in  the  tree,  of  course." 

"Yes,  but  Sally,  what  will  you  be?" 

"I  haven't  decided,"  replied  Sally  thoughtfully.  "I'll 
be  deciding  while  I  go  up."  She  turned  and  began  to  climb 
the  tree,  skillfully.  She  had  got  no  farther  than  the  lower 
branches  when  she  stopped.  "Oh,  I'll  tell  you,  Charlie," 
she  cried.  "It's  just  the  thing.  I'll  be  father's  little  lizard." 

"What  lizard?"  Charlie  demanded. 

"Father's  little  lizard,  that  he's  got  the  skeleton  of,  up  in 
his  room." 

"  Is  n't  any  little  lizard,"  Charlie  returned,  very  positively. 
"That's  a  croc." 

"It  is,  too,  a  lizard,  Charlie.   Father  said  so." 

"Lizards  are  little  weenty  things,"  Charlie  objected. 
"  'Sides,  they  don't  live  in  trees." 

Sally  did  not  feel  sure  on  this  point,  so  she  evaded  it. 

"That  little  lizard  lived  millions  of  years  ago."  What 
were  a  few  million  years,  more  or  less,  to  her?  "And  father 
said  that  it  could  fly  like  a  bat.  It  used  to  fly  right  up  into 
the  coal  trees  and  —  and  eat  the  coal  that  grew  on  them." 
Sally  was  giggling  at  the  recollection.  "Now,  this  is  a  coal 
tree  and  I'm  that  little  lizard,  and  this  is  millions  of  years 
ago." 

Charlie  had  been  paralyzed  into  momentary  silence  by 
the  information  poured  into  him  so  rapidly.  The  silence 
was  but  momentary,  but  Sally  took  advantage  of  it  and 
climbed  swiftly. 

"Sally!" 

Sally  paused.   "What?"  she  asked. 

"You  that  same  lizard  that  father  has  the  skeleton  of?" 

Sally  acknowledged  that  she  was. 

"Then,"  Charlie  retorted,  "you  have  n't  got  any  bones  in 
you.  They're  up  in  father's  room." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  21 

Sally  chuckled,  but  she  did  not  reply  to  this  remark 
directly. 

"Charlie,"  she  called,  "you  be  a  saurus  something." 

"Don't  want  to  be  a  —  Sally,  what's  a  —  that  thing  that 
you  said  for  me  to  be?  What  is  it?" 

"Well,"  replied  Sally  slowly,  "it's  an  animal  kind  of  like 
an  alligator  —  and  such  things,  you  know.  I  guess  I  'm  one. 
And  Charlie,  you  can't  talk.  Animals  —  especially  sauruses 
—  never  talked." 

"Parrots  can,"  returned  Charlie  sullenly. 

Sally  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  try  to  answer  this 
objection. 

"There  was  n't  any  kind  of  a  thing,  millions  of  years  ago, 
that  could  talk,"  she  said  calmly,  "so,  of  course,  they  could 
n't  learn." 

"Then  you  can't  talk,  either,"  said  Charlie,  in  triumph. 
And  he  subsided  and  returned  to  the  eating  of  crackers,  of 
which,  as  everybody  knows,  the  saurians  were  extremely 
fond. 

Sally,  meanwhile,  was  enjoying  the  prospect  of  treetops; 
an  unbroken  prospect  of  treetops,  except  for  a  swamp 
which,  in  historic  times,  became  their  own  little  valley. 

Sally  had  ceased,  for  the  moment,  her  flitting  lightly  from 
bough  to  bough,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  her  presence;  and 
Charlie  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  crackers  and  was  browsing 
around  in  the  grass,  picking  up  a  crumb  here  and  there. 

"Hello!"  said  a  strange  voice;  a  strange  voice,  but  a  very 
pleasant  one.  "As  I  'm  a  living  sinner,  if  here  is  n't  a  little 
pony!" 

Charlie  looked  up  into  the  eyes  of  a  very  serious  young 
man.  The  eyes  were  twinkling  over  the  wall  and  through 
the  gap  in  the  trees.  Charlie  decided  not  to  be  frightened. 
But  he  shook  his  head.  He  was  n't  a  pony. 

"Well,  well,  of  course  not,"  the  voice  went  on.  "I  was 
rather  hasty,  but  it  looked  like  a  pony,  at  the  first  glance. 
I  guess  it's  a  fierce  bull." 

Charlie  shook  his  head  again,  less  positively.  Now  that 


22  CONCERNING  SALLY 

it  had  been  suggested,  he  yearned  to  be  a  fierce  bull.  He 
wished  that  he  had  thought  of  it  before  he  shook  his 
head. 

"A  camel?"  asked  the  young  man.  "Can  it  be  a  camel?" 

Once  more  Charlie  shook  his  head,  and  he  laughed. 

"  It  sounds  like  a  hyena,"  remarked  the  stranger  solemnly, 
"but  it  can't  be,  for  hyenas  eat — "  He  put  his  hand  to 
his  forehead  and  seemed  to  be  puzzling  it  out.  "Aha!"  he 
cried  at  last.  "I  have  it.  A  giraffe!" 

"No!"  Charlie  shouted.  "I'm  aren't  a  giraffe.  I'm  a 
saw-horse." 

And  he  straddled  his  legs  far  apart  and  his  arms  far  apart, 
and  he  looked  as  much  like  a  saw-horse  as  he  could.  That 
is  n't  saying  much. 

At  this  last  announcement  of  Charlie's,  Sally  exploded 
in  a  series  of  chuckles  so  sudden  and  so  violent  that  she 
almost  fell  out  of  the  tree. 

An  answering  titter  came  from  the  other  side  of  the  wall 
and  a  pair  of  hands  appeared,  trying  for  a  hold  on  the  top 
stones;  then  the  head  of  a  very  pretty  little  girl  followed, 
until  her  chin  was  on  a  level  with  the  top  of  the  wall  and  she 
could  look  over  it  into  Charlie's  eyes. 

The  strange  young  man  had  looked  up  into  the  tree. 
"Hello!"  he  exclaimed.  "If  there  is  n't  another!  Is  that  a 
saw-horse,  too?" 

Charlie  had  considered  himself  the  person  addressed. 
"Yes,"  he  replied,  "it  is.  It's  a  flying  one." 

"Mercy  on  us!"  cried  the  young  man.  "A  flying  saw- 
horse  !  What  a  lot  of  saw-horses  you  have  about  here ;  very 
interesting  ones,  too." 

"Yes,"  said  Charlie  importantly,  "we  like  to  be  'em." 

"  It  must  be  most  exciting  to  be  so  extraordinary  a  thing. 
Do  you  suppose  you  could  get  that  flying  one  to  come  down 
where  we  can  see  it?  Do  you  know,  I  never  have  seen  a 
flying  saw-horse  in  all  the  nineteen  years  that  I  have  lived." 

"She  won't  come  down  unless  she  wants  to,"  Charlie 
grumbled. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  23 

Sally  was  recovering,  in  a  measure,  from  her  fit  of  chuck 
ling.  She  leaned  far  forward,  below  the  screen  of  leaves. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  will,"  she  called,  in  a  low,  clear  voice.  "Be 
sides,  I  want  to.  Charlie  was  mistaken  about  the  saw-horse. 
He  meant  saurus.  And  I  was  a  flying  lizard  and  this  was  a 
coal  tree.  From  the  top  of  the  tree  you  can't  see  anything 
but  treetops  and  swamps.  It's  millions  of  years  ago,  you 
know.  And  father 's  got  the  skeleton  of  this  very  lizard  up 
in  his  room,  and  he  said  that  it  used  to  fly  right  up  in  the 
topmost  branches  of  the  coal  trees  and  he  told  me  about  the 
sauruses  that  used  to  be."  She  had  dropped  to  the  ground. 
"Oh,  it's  very  interesting." 

"It  must  be,"  the  young  man  smilingly  replied;  "and  I 
should  suppose  that  it  must  be  rather  interesting  for  your 
father  to  have  such  a  pupil." 

"  It  is  n't,"  Sally  returned.  "That  is  —  father  only  told 
me  those  things  the  other  day." 

The  young  man  laughed.  "  I  guess  you  must  be  Professor 
Ladue's  little  girl." 

"Yes,"  said  Sally,  "we  are.  That  is,  I  am, and  this  is  my 
brother  Charlie." 

"The  only  and  original  saw-horse.  You,  I  suppose,  were 
a  —  we'll  call  it  a  gynesaurus  — " 

Sally  clapped  her  hands  and  gave  a  little  laugh  of  delight. 

"And  this,"  he  continued,  laying  his  hand  affectionately 
upon  the  small  head  beside  him,  "is  my  small  sister,  Henri 
etta  Sanderson,  who  would  be  happy  to  be  any  kind  of  a 
beast  that  you  tell  her  about.  She  is  ten  years  old  and  she 
dotes  on  being  strange  beasts." 

"Oh,"  cried  Sally,  "and  I'm  ten  years  old,  too.  Would 
Henrietta  like  to  come  over  the  wall  now?  There's  a  gate 
farther  along." 

"Henrietta  despises  gates.  But  does  your  invitation  in 
clude  her  brother?  I'm  Fox  Sanderson  and  I  was  on  my 
way  to  see  your  father." 

"Father  isn't  at  home  to-day,"  said  Sally;  "and,  if  you 
could  come  over,  too  — " 


24  CONCERNING  SALLY 

At  that,  Fox  Sanderson  put  his  hands  on  the  top  of  the 
wall  and  vaulted  lightly  over.  He  turned  to  help  Henrietta. 

"Now,"  he  said,  when  she  was  safely  on  the  right  side, 
"here  we  all  are.  What  '11  we  do?" 

Henrietta  had  her  brother's  hand.  "Fox  tells  lovely 
stories,"  she  remarked. 

"Does  he?"  asked  Sally.   "What  about?" 

"About  any  kind  of  a  thing  that  you  ask  him,"  answered 
Henrietta. 

"About  sauruses?"  Sally  asked  eagerly,  turning  to  him. 

"All  right,"  he  agreed,  smiling;  "about  sauruses.  But 
I'm  afraid  it's  just  a  little  too  cold  for  you  youngsters  to  sit 
still  and  listen  to  stories.  I  '11  have  to  keep  you  moving  a 
bit." 

Sally  told  her  mother  about  it  that  night.  She  thought 
that  she  never  had  had  such  a  good  time  in  all  her  life.  Fox 
Sanderson!  Well,  he  told  the  most  wonderful  stories  that 
ever  were. 

"And,  mother,"  said  Sally,  all  interest,  "he  had  me  be  a 
gynesaurus  and  Henrietta  was  a  —  But  what  are  you 
laughing  at?" 

For  Mrs.  Ladue  had  burst  out  laughing.  "My  dear  little 
girl !"  she  cried  softly .  " My  dear  little  girl !  A  gynesaurus! 
This  Fox  Sanderson  must  be  interesting,  indeed." 

"Then  I  can  play  with  Henrietta?  And  father  would  n't 
mind, do  you  think?  And  your  head  can't  be  hurting,  mother, 
because  you  just  laughed  right  out." 


CHAPTER   IV 

PROFESSOR  LADUE  again  sat  on  the  floor  of  his  room 
before  the  skeleton  of  his  lizard,  absent-mindedly 
fingering  a  bone.  Now  and  then  he  looked  out  of  the 
window  at  the  great  tree;  at  that  particular  spot  in  the 
great  tree  upon  which  his  daughter  had  been  seated,  one 
morning,  not  so  very  long  before.  He  may  have  had  a  half- 
formed  wish  that  he  might  again  discover  her  there. 

But  I  do  not  know  what  half-formed  wishes  he  had,  con 
cerning  the  tree,  his  daughter,  or  anything  else.  At  all 
events,  Sally  did  not  appear  in  the  tree.  Had  not  he  expressed 
disapproval  of  that  very  performance?  He  could  trust  her. 
Perhaps,  with  a  dim  consciousness  of  that  fact,  and,  perhaps, 
with  a  certain  disappointment  that  she  was  to  be  trusted  so 
implicitly,  —  she  bore,  in  that  respect,  not  the  most  remote 
resemblance  to  her  father,  —  the  professor  sighed.  Then, 
still  holding  the  bone  which  bothered  him,  he  went  to  his 
desk.  There  was  a  bone  missing  —  possibly  more  than  one 
—  and  he  would  try  to  draw  the  missing  bone. 

He  had  scarcely  got  to  work  when  there  was  a  knock 
at  his  door.  It  was  a  firm  knock,  but  not  loud,  expressing 
a  quiet  determination.  Professor  Ladue  seemed  to  know 
that  knock.  He  seemed,  almost,  as  if  he  had  been  waiting 
for  it. 

"Come!"  he  cried,  with  an  alacrity  which  would  not  have 
been  expected  of  him. 

He  pushed  back  his  drawing-board  and  Sally  came  in. 

"Ah,  Miss  Ladue!"  he  cried,  with  a  certain  spurious 
gayety  which  concealed  —  something.  I  don't  know  what  it 
concealed,  and  neither  did  Sally,  although  she  knew  well 
enough  that  there  was  something  behind  it.  She  feared  that 
it  was  anxiety  behind  it,  and  she  feared  the  cause  of  that 


26  CONCERNING  SALLY 

anxiety.  "And  what,"  continued  the  Professor,  "can  we  do 
for  Miss  Ladue  to-day?  Will  she  have  more  about  this  liz 
ard  of  mine?" 

Sally's  eyes  lighted  up  and  she  smiled.  "I  should  like 
that  very  much,  father,  thank  you.  But  I  can't,  this  morn 
ing,  for  I'm  taking  care  of  Charlie." 

"And  is  Charlie  concealed  somewhere  about  you?  Pos 
sibly  you  have  him  in  your  pocket?" 

Sally  giggled.   "Charlie's  tied  to  a  tree." 

"Tied  to  a  tree!  Does  he  submit  gracefully?" 

"He's  an  alligator;  down  by  the  wall,  you  know." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  the  professor.  "I  am  illumined.  Do 
you  think  it  is  quite  for  the  safety  of  the  passers-by  to  keep 
an  alligator  so  close  to  the  road?" 

Sally  giggled  again.  "Yes,"  she  returned,  "if  I'm  not 
gone  too  long.  I  came  on  an  errand." 

Professor  Ladue  lost  somewhat  of  his  gayety.  "State 
your  errand,  Sally.  I  hope  — " 

But  the  professor  neglected  to  state  what  he  had  hoped. 
Sally  stated  her  errand  with  her  customary  directness. 

"Mother  wants  me  to  go  to  dancing-school.   Can  I?" 

"I  suppose,"  returned  Professor  Ladue  airily,  "that  you 
can  go  wherever  your  legs  will  carry  you.  I  see  no  indica 
tions  of  your  inability  in  that  direction  or  in  any  other. 
Whether  you  may  go  is  another  question." 

Sally  did  not  smile.  "Well,  then,  may  I?  Have  you  any 
objection?  Will  you  let  me  go?" 

"That  is  a  matter  which  deserves  more  consideration. 
Why  do  you  wish  to  go?" 

"Only  because  mother  wants  me  to,"  Sally  answered. 
"I  like  to  please  mother." 

"Oh,"  said  the  professor.  "Ah!  And  what,  if  I  may  ask, 
are  your  own  inclinations  in  the  matter?" 

"Well,"  replied  Sally  slowly.  "I  —  it  does  n't  seem  to  me 
that  it  would  be  very  interesting  to  go  there  just  because 
a  lot  of  other  children  go.  I  could  have  a  lot  better  time 
playing  by  myself.  That  is,  I  —  of  course,  there 's  Henrietta, 


CONCERNING  SALLY  27 

but  Margaret  Savage  is  stupid.  But,"  she  added  hastily, 
"  I  do  want  to  go  because  mother  wants  me  to." 

"Oh,"  the  professor  remarked,  with  a  slight  smile  of 
amusement;  "so  Margaret  Savage  is  stupid.  But  why 
did  n't  your  mother  ask  me  herself?" 

"Perhaps  she  was  afraid  to,"  Sally  said  quietly.  " I  don't 
know  what  the  reason  was." 

"But  you  think  it  was  that  she  was  afraid  to."  The  smile 
on  his  face  changed  imperceptibly.  The  change  made  it  a 
sneer.  It  is  astonishing  to  see  how  much  a  slight  change 
can  accomplish.  "Perhaps  you  know  why  she  was  afraid? " 

"Yes,"  Sally  acknowledged,  "perhaps  I  do." 

"Well,  would  you  be  good  enough  to  give  me  the  benefit 
of  your  ideas  on  that  subject?" 

Sally  flushed  a  little,  but  she  did  not  falter  in  the  direct 
ness  of  her  gaze  any  more  than  in  her  speech.  "You  gener 
ally  make  her  cry  when  she  asks  you  for  anything." 

The  professor  flushed  in  his  turn.  "Indeed!"  said  he. 
"A  most  observing  child!  A  very  observing  child,  indeed. 
And  so  your  mother  sent  you  in  her  place." 

"She  didn't,"  said  Sally  impassively,  although  with  a 
rising  color ;  "  she  does  n't  know  anything  about  my  coming." 

" Oh ! "  remarked  the  professor  reflectively.  "So  you  came 
on  your  own  hook  —  off  your  own  bat." 

She  nodded. 

There  was  a  long  silence  while  Professor  Ladue  drummed 
on  the  table  with  his  fingers.  Sally  waited. 

At  last  he  turned.  "Sally,"  he  said,  with  a  slight  return 
of  that  gayety  he  had  shown  on  her  entrance,  "the  high 
courage  of  Miss  Sally  Ladue  shall  receive  the  reward  which 
it  deserves.  It  is  not  fitting  that  it  should  not.  Bearding  the 
lion  in  his  den  is  nothing  to  it.  I  am  curious  to  know,  Sally, 
whether  you  — "  But  there  the  professor  stopped.  He  had 
been  about  to  ask  his  daughter,  aged  ten,  whether  she  was 
not  afraid.  He  knew  that  she  was  not  afraid.  He  knew  that, 
if  there  was  some  fear,  some  hesitation,  some  doubt  as  to  the 
exact  outcome  of  the  interview,,  it  was  not  on  Sally's  part. 


28  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Sally  was  waiting  for  him  to  finish. 

"Well,  Sally,"  he  continued,  waving  his  hand  airily, 
"make  your  arrangements.  Miss  Ladue  is  to  go  to  dancing- 
school  and  dance  her  feet  off  if  she  wants  to.  Never  mind  the 
price."  He  waved  his  hand  again.  "Never  mind  the  price. 
What  are  a  few  paltry  dollars  that  they  should  interfere 
with  pleasure?  What  is  money  to  dancing?" 

Sally  was  very  solemn.  "  I  think  the  price  is  ten  dollars," 
she  said. 

Professor  Ladue  snapped  his  fingers  in  the  air.  "It  does 
n't  matter.  Poof!  Ten  dollars  or  ten  hundred!  Let  us 
dance!" 

Sally's  eyes  filled,  but  she  choked  the  tears  back. 

"Thank  you,  father,"  she  said  gently.  "Mother  will  be 
glad." 

He  rose  and  bowed,  his  hand  on  his  heart.  "That  is  im 
portant,  of  course." 

"I  think  it  is  the  only  important  thing  about  it,"  Sally 
returned  promptly. 

The  professor  bowed  again,  without  reply,  and  Sally 
turned  to  go. 

It  may  have  been  that  the  professor's  heart  smote  him. 
It  may  have  been  that  he  had  been  aware  of  Sally's  unshed 
tears.  It  may  have  been  that  he  regretted  that  he  should 
have  been  the  cause  —  but  I  may  be  doing  him  an  injustice. 
Very  likely  he  was  above  such  things  as  the  tears  of  his  wife 
and  his  daughter.  It  is  quite  possible  that  he  was  as  proud 
of  his  ability  to  draw  tears  as  of  his  ability  to  draw,  correctly, 
a  bone  that  he  never  saw.  Whatever  the  reason,  he  spoke 
again  as  Sally  was  opening  the  door. 

"Will  Miss  Ladue,"  he  asked,  with  an  elaborate  polite 
ness,  "honor  my  poor  study  with  her  presence  when  she 
has  more  leisure?  When  she  has  not  Charlie  on  her  mind? 
We  can,  if  she  pleases,  go  farther  into  the  matter  of  lizards 
or  of  coal  trees." 

"Thank  you,  father,"  Sally  replied. 

Professor  Ladue  was  conscious  of  a  regret  that  she  spoke 


CONCERNING  SALLY  29 

without  enthusiasm.  But  it  was  too  much  to  expect  —  so 
soon. 

"  I  shall  be  pleased,"  he  said. 

An  idea,  which  seemed  just  to  have  occurred  to  Sally, 
made  her  face  brighten.  The  professor  noted  it. 

"And  can  —  may  I  bring  Henrietta?" 

" Bring  Henrietta!"  cried  the  professor.  "That  is  food  for 
thought.  Who  is  this  Henrietta?  It  seems  to  me  that  you 
mentioned  her  once  before." 

"Yes,"  said  Sally  eagerly.  "I  did.  She  is  Henrietta 
Sanderson  and  Fox  Sanderson  is  her  brother.  He  came  to  see 
you  the  other  day.  You  were  n't  at  home." 

"Fox  Sanderson!" 

"Yes,"  said  Sally,  again;  "and  when  I  told  him  that  you 
were  n't  at  home,  he  came  over  the  wall.  He  brought 
Henrietta.  He  knows  a  lot  about  sauruses." 

"He  knows  a  lot  about  sauruses,  does  he?"  the  professor 
repeated  thoughtfully.  "It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  some 
recollection  of  Fox  Sanderson." 

He  turned  and  rummaged  in  a  drawer  of  his  desk.  He 
seemed  unable  to  find  what  he  was  looking  for,  and  he 
extracted  from  the  depths  of  the  drawer  many  empty 
cigarette  boxes,  which  he  cast  into  the  grate,  and  a  handful 
of  papers,  which  he  dumped  on  the  top  of  the  desk,  impa 
tiently.  He  sorted  these  over,  in  the  same  impatient  man 
ner,  and  finally  he  found  it.  It  was  a  letter  and  was  near  the 
bottom  of  the  pile.  He  opened  it  and  read  it. 

"H-mph!"  he  said,  reading,  "Thanks  me  for  my  kind 
permission,  does  he?  Now,  Miss  Ladue,  can  you  give  me 
any  light  upon  that?  What  permission  does  he  refer  to? 
Permission  to  do  what?" 

Sally  shook  her  head.   But  her  father  was  not  looking. 

"Oh,"  he  said;  "h-m.  I  must  have  said  that  I'd  see  him." 
He  read  on.  "I  must  even  have  said  that  he  could  study 
with  me;  that  I'd  help  him.  Very  thoughtless  of  me,  very 
thoughtless,  indeed !  It  must  have  been  after  —  well.  And 
he  will  be  here  in  the  course  of  three  weeks."  The  professor 


30  CONCERNING  SALLY 

turned  the  leaf.  "This  was  written  a  month  ago.  So  he's 
here,  is  he,  Sally?" 

"Yes,"  Sally  answered,  "he's  here." 

The  professor  stood,  for  a  few  moments,  looking  at  Sally, 
the  slight  smile  on  his  lips  expressive  of  mingled  disgust  and 
amusement. 

"Well,"  he  observed,  at  last,  "it  appears  to  be  one  on  me. 
I  must  have  said  it.  I  have  a  vague  recollection  of  some 
thing  of  the  kind,  but  the  recollection  is  very  vague.  Do 
you  like  him,  Sally?" 

"Oh,  yes."  Sally  seemed  to  feel  that  that  was  too  sweep 
ing.  "That  is,"  she  added,  "I  —  I  like  him." 

Professor  Ladue  laughed  lightly.  Sally  laughed,  too,  but 
in  an  embarrassed  fashion. 

"That  is  satisfactory.  You  couldn't  qualify  it,  Sally, 
could  you?  Tried  hard,  did  n't  you?" 

Sally  flushed. 

"Well,"  continued  the  professor,  "if  you  chance  to  see 
this  Fox  Sanderson,  or  any  relative  of  his,  will  you  convey 
to  him  my  deep  sense  of  pleasure  at  his  presence?  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  Miss  Ladue  if  she  will  do  that." 

"I  will,"  said  Sally  gravely. 

Professor  Ladue  bowed.  So  far  as  he  was  concerned,  the  in 
terview  was  closed.  So  far  as  Sally  was  concerned,  it  was  not. 

"Well?"  asked  Sally.  "May  I  bring  Henrietta?  You 
have  n't  answered  that  question,  father." 

"Dear  me!  What  an  incomprehensible  omission!  I  must 
be  getting  old  and  forgetful.  Old  and  forgetful,  Sally.  It  is 
a  state  that  we  all  attain  if  we  do  not  die  first." 

"Yes,"  said  Sally,  "  I  suppose  so.  May  I  bring  Henrietta, 
father?" 

Professor  Ladue  laughed  shortly.  "What  a  persistent 
child  you  are,  Sally!" 

"  I  have  to  be,"  she  replied,  trying  not  to  show  her  disap 
pointment.  "I  suppose  you  mean  that  you  don't  want  me 
to  bring  Henrietta.  Well,  I  won't.  Perhaps  I  may  come  in 
some  day  and  hear  about  the  lizard." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  31 

He  did  what  he  had  not  expected  to  do.  "Oh,  bring 
her,  by  all  means,"  he  cried,  with  an  assumed  cheerfulness 
which  would  not  have  deceived  you  or  me.  It  did  not  de 
ceive  Sally.  "Bring  her."  He  waved  his  hand  inclusively. 
"  Bring  Henrietta  and  Margaret  Savage  and  any  others  you 
can  think  of.  Bring  them  all.  I  shall  be  pleased  —  hon 
ored."  And  again  he  bowed. 

Sally  was  just  opening  the  door.  "Margaret  Savage 
would  not  be  interested,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  without 
turning  her  head,  "and  there  are  n't  — " 

"Sally,"  the  professor  interrupted  in  cold  exasperation, 
"will  you  be  good  enough  to  project  in  my  direction,  what 
voice  you  think  it  best  to  use,  when  you  speak  to  me?  Will 
you  be  so  kind?  I  do  not  believe  that  I  am  growing  deaf, 
but  I  don't  hear  you." 

Sally  turned  toward  him.  "Yes,  father,  I  beg  your  par 
don.  I  said  that  Margaret  Savage  would  n't  be  interested," 
she  repeated  quietly  and  clearly,  "and  that  there  aren't 
any  others." 

He  made  an  inarticulate  noise  in  his  throat.  Sally  was 
on  the  point  of  shutting  the  door. 

"Sally!"  he  called. 

The  door  opened  again  just  far  enough  to  show  proper 
respect.  "Yes,  father?" 

"Would  your  friend  Henrietta  really  be  interested  in  — 
in  what  she  would  probably  hear?" 

The  door  opened  wider.  "Oh,  yes,  she  would.  I'm  sure 
she  would."  There  was  a  note  of  eagerness  in  Sally's  voice. 

"Well,  then,  you  may  bring  her.  I  shall  be  glad  to  have 
you  both  when  you  find  leisure.  But  no  Margaret  Savages, 
Sally." 

"Oh,  no,  father.  Thank  you  very  much." 

After  which  Sally  shut  the  door  and  the  professor  heard 
her  running  downstairs.  He  seemed  pleased  to  hear  the 
noise,  which  really  was  not  great,  and  seated  himself  at  his 
desk  again  and  took  up  his  drawing. 

And  Sally,  when  she  had  got  downstairs  and  out  of  doors, 


32  CONCERNING  SALLY 

found  her  exhilaration  oozing  away  rapidly  and  a  depression 
of  spirit  taking  its  place.  The  interview,  on  the  whole,  had 
been  well  calculated  —  it  may  have  been  carefully  calcu 
lated  —  to  take  the  starch  out  of  a  woman  grown.  Professor 
Ladue  had  had  much  experience  at  taking  the  starch  out  of 
others.  And  Sally  was  not  a  woman  grown,  but  a  child  of 
ten.  Her  powers  of  resistance  had  been  equal  to  the  task 
imposed,  fortunately,  but  she  found  that  the  exercise  of 
those  powers  had  left  her  weak  and  shaky,  and  she  was 
sobbing  as  she  ran.  If  the  professor  had  seen  her  then,  — 
if  he  had  known  just  what  her  feelings  were  as  she  sobbed,  — 
would  he  have  been  proud  of  his  ability  to  draw  tears?  I 
wonder. 

"Anyway,"  Sally  sobbed,  "  I  know  how  he  makes  mother 
feel.  I  know.  Oh,  mother,  mother!  But  I'll  never  give  in. 
I  won't!" 

She  stopped  her  convulsive  sobbing  by  the  simple  process 
of  shutting  her  teeth  over  her  lower  lip,  and  she  dashed 
away  the  tears  from  her  eyes  as  she  ran  toward  the  captive 
alligator,  whose  continuous  roar  was  growing  in  her  ears. 
The  roar  was  one  of  rage. 

"Oh,  dear!  I  left  him  too  long." 

And  Sally  ran  up  to  find  Charlie  fumbling  at  the  knot  of 
the  rope  by  which  he  was  tied.  He  cried  out  at  her  instantly. 

"Sally!  Don't  want  to  be  tied  any  more.  Are  n't  an  alli 
gator.  I  'm  a  little  boy.  Don't  want  to  be  tied  like  an  old 
cow." 

Sally  hastily  untied  him,  comforting  him,  meanwhile, 
as  well  as  she  could.  But  Charlie,  noticing  something  un 
usual  in  her  voice,  looked  up  into  her  face  and  saw  traces  of 
tears.  He  immediately  burst  into  tears  himself. 

"Charlie!"  cried  Sally,  fiercely;  "Charlie!  Laugh,  now! 
Laugh,  I  tell  you."  She  glanced  over  the  wall.  "Here  come 
Fox  Sanderson  and  Henrietta.  Laugh!" 


CHAPTER   V 

SALLY  always  remembered  that  winter,  a  winter  of  hard 
work  and  growing  anxiety  for  her,  enlivened  by  brief 
and  occasional  joys.  She  got  to  know  Fox  and  Henri 
etta  very  well,  which  was  a  continual  joy  and  enlivenment. 
Sally  did  not  count  dancing-school  among  the  enlivenments. 
And  the  infrequent  lessons  with  Fox  and  Henrietta  and  her 
father  were  enlivenments,  too,  usually;  not  always.   After 
the  times  when  they  were  not,  Sally  wanted  to  cry,  but  she 
did  n't,  which  made  it  all  the  harder. 

Her  mother  seemed  steadily  progressing  toward  perma 
nent  invalidism,  while  her  father  was  doing  much  worse 
than  that.  And  she  took  more  and  more  of  the  burden  of 
both  upon  her  own  small  shoulders.  Poor  child !  She  should 
have  known  no  real  anxiety ;  none  more  real  than  the  com 
mon  anxieties  of  childhood.  But  perhaps  they  are  real 
enough.  Sally  was  not  eleven  yet. 

It  is  hard  to  say  whether  her  mother  or  her  father  caused 
Sally  the  more  anxiety.  Her  mother's  progress  was  so 
gradual  that  the  change  from  day  to  day  —  or  from  week  to 
week,  for  that  matter  —  was  not  noticeable ;  while  her 
father's  was  spasmodic.  Sally  did  not  see  him  during  a 
spasm,  so  that  she  did  not  know  how  noticeable  the  change 
was  from  day  to  day  or  from  hour  to  hour.  We  do  not  speak 
of  weeks  in  such  cases.  But  it  was  just  after  a  spasm  that 
he  was  apt  to  make  his  appearance  again  at  home  in  a  condi 
tion  of  greater  or  less  dilapidation,  with  nerves  on  edge  and 
his  temper  in  such  a  state  that  Mrs.  Ladue  had  grown  accus 
tomed,  in  those  circumstances,  to  the  use  of  great  care  when 
she  was  forced  to  address  him.  Lately,  she  had  avoided  him 
entirely  at  such  times.  Sally,  on  the  contrary,  made  no 
effort  to  avoid  him  and  did  not  use  great  care  when  she 


34  CONCERNING  SALLY 

addressed  him,  although  she  was  always  respectful.  This 
course  was  good  for  the  shreds  of  the  professor's  soul  and 
perhaps  no  harder  for  Sally.  But  that  was  not  the  reason 
why  she  did  it.  She  could  not  have  done  differently. 

There  was  the  time  in  the  fall,  but  that  was  over.  And 
there  was  the  time  at  Christmas  which  Sally  nipped  in  the 
bud.  Following  the  Christmas  fiasco  —  a  fiasco  only  from 
the  point  of  view  of  the  professor  —  was  the  Era  of  Good 
Behavior.  That  is  begun  with  capitals  because  Sally  was 
very  happy  about  her  father  during  that  era,  although  her 
mother's  health  worried  her  more  and  more.  Then  there 
was  the  time  late  in  the  winter,  after  her  father  had  broken 
down  under  the  strain  of  Good  Behavior  for  two  months; 
and,  again,  twice  in  March.  Professor  Ladue  must  have 
been  breaking  rapidly  during  that  spring,  for  there  came  that 
awful  time  when  it  seemed,  even  to  Sally,  as  if  the  bottom 
were  dropping  out  of  everything  and  as  if  she  had  rather  die 
than  not.  Dying  seems  easier  to  all  of  us  when  we  are  rather 
young,  although  the  idea  does  not  generally  come  to  us  when 
we  are  ten  years  old.  But  it  must  be  remembered  that  Sally 
was  getting  rather  more  than  her  fair  share  of  hard  knocks. 
Later  in  life  dying  does  not  seem  so  desirable.  It  is  a  clear 
shirking  of  responsibility.  Not  that  Sally  ought  to  have  had 
responsibility. 

The  time  at  Christmas  happened  on  the  last  day  of  term 
time;  and,  because  that  day  was  only  half  a  day  for  the  pro 
fessor  and  because  Christmas  was  but  two  days  off,  Sally 
had  persuaded  her  mother  to  take  her  into  town.  "Town" 
was  half  an  hour's  ride  in  the  train;  and,  once  there,  Sally 
intended  to  persuade  her  mother  further  and  to  beard  her 
father  in  his  laboratory  and  to  take  him  for  an  afternoon's 
Christmas  shopping;  very  modest  shopping.  Whether  Mrs. 
Ladue  suspected  the  designs  of  Sally  and  was  sure  of  their 
failure,  I  do  not  know.  Sally  had  not  told  her  mother  of  her 
complete  plans.  She  was  by  no  means  certain  of  their  suc 
cess  herself.  In  fact,  she  felt  very  shaky  about  it,  but  it  was 
to  be  tried.  Whatever  her  reason,  Mrs.  Ladue  consented 


CONCERNING  SALLY  35 

with  great  and  very  evident  reluctance,  and  it  may  have 
been  her  dread  of  the  occasion  that  gave  her  the  headache 
which  followed.  So  Sally  had  to  choose  between  two  evils. 
And,  the  evil  to  her  father  seeming  the  greater  if  she  stayed 
at  home  with  her  mother,  she  elected  to  go. 

She  disposed  of  Charlie  and  knocked  softly  on  her 
mother's  door.  There  was  a  faint  reply  and  Sally  went  in. 
The  shades  were  pulled  down  and  the  room  was  rather  dark. 
Sally  went  to  her  mother  and  bent  over  her  and  put  her 
arms  half  around  her.  She  did  it  very  gently,  —  oh,  so 
gently,  —  for  fear  of  making  the  headache  worse. 

"Is  your  head  better,  mother,  dear?"  she  asked  softly. 

Mrs.  Ladue  smiled  wanly.  "Having  my  dear  little  girl 
here  makes  it  better,"  she  answered. 

"Does  it,  mother?  Does  it  really?"  The  thought  made 
Sally  very  happy.  But  then  it  suddenly  came  over  her  that, 
if  she  carried  out  her  plans,  she  could  not  stay.  She  was  torn 
with  conflicting  emotions,  but  not  with  doubts.  She  had 
considered  enough  and  she  knew  what  she  intended  to  do. 
She  did  not  hesitate. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  mother,  dear,  that  I  can't  stay  now. 
I  '11  come  in  when  I  get  back,  though,  and  I  '11  stay  then,  if  it 
is  n't  too  late  and  if  you  want  me  then.  I  truly  will.  I  love 
to." 

"Is  it  Charlie,  Sally?  You  have  too  much  of  the  care  of 
Charlie.  If  I  were  n't  so  good  for  nothing!" 

"I've  left  Charlie  with  Katie,  and  he's  happy.  It's 
father.  I  think  I  'd  better  go  in  and  meet  him.  Don't  you 
think  I'd  better?" 

The  tears  came  to  Mrs.  Ladue's  eyes.  "Bless  you,  dear 
child!  But  how  can  you,  dear,  all  alone?  No,  Sally.  If  you 
must  go,  I'll  get  up  and  go  with  you." 

"Oh,  mother,  you  must  n't,  you  must  n't.  I  can  get  Fox 
to  go  with  me.  I  know  he  will.  I  promise  not  to  go  unless  I 
can  get  Fox  —  or  some  one  —  to  go." 

"Some  grown  person,  Sally?"  Mrs.  Ladue  asked  anx 
iously. 


36  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Yes,"  answered  Sally,  almost  smiling,  "some  grown  per 
son.  That  is,"  she  added,  "if  you  call  Fox  Sanderson  a 
grown  person." 

"Fox  Sanderson  is  a  dear  good  boy,"  replied  Mrs.  Ladue. 
"  I  wish  you  had  a  brother  like  him,  Sally,  —  just  like  him." 

" I  wish  I  did,"  said  Sally,  "but  I  have  n't.  The  next  best 
thing  is  to  have  him  just  Fox  Sanderson.  Will  you  be  satis 
fied  with  him,  mother,  dear,  —  if  I  can  get  him  to  go?" 

Again  Mrs.  Ladue  smiled.  "Quite  satisfied,  dear.  I  can 
trust  you,  Sally,  and  you  don't  know  what  a  relief  that  is." 

"No,"  said  Sally,  "I  s'pose  I  don't."  Nevertheless  she 
may  have  had  some  idea. 

That  thought  probably  occurred  to  her  mother,  for  she 
laughed  a  little  tremulously.  "Kiss  me,  darling,  and  go 
along." 

So  Sally  kissed  her  mother,  tenderly  and  again  and  again, 
and  turned  away.  But  her  mother  called  her  back. 

"Sally,  there  is  a  ticket  in  my  bureau,  somewhere.  And, 
if  you  can  find  my  purse,  you  had  better  take  that,  too.  I 
think  there  is  nearly  two  dollars  in  it.  It  is  a  pretty  small 
sum  for  Christmas  shopping,  but  I  shall  be  glad  if  you  spend 
it  all." 

Sally  turned  to  kiss  her  mother  again.  "  I  shan't  spend  it 
all,"  she  said. 

She  rummaged  until  she  found  the  ticket  and  the  purse; 
and,  with  a  last  good-bye  to  her  mother,  she  was  gone.  Mrs. 
Ladue  sighed.  "The  darling!"  she  said,  under  her  breath. 

Sally  met  Fox  and  Henrietta  just  outside  her  own  gate. 
"Oh,"  she  cried,  "it's  lucky,  for  you're  exactly  the  persons 
I  wanted  to  see." 

Henrietta  looked  expectant. 

"Well,  Sally,"  Fox  said,  smiling,  "what's  up  now?" 

"I'm  going  to  town,"  Sally  answered,  less  calmly  than 
usual.  She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  as  she  spoke.  "That  is, 
I'm  going  if  I  can  find  somebody  to  go  with  me." 

Fox  laughed.  "Is  that  what  you  call  a  hint,  Sally?  Will 
we  do?" 


CONCERNING  SALLY  37 

"  It  is  n't  a  hint,"  said  Sally,  flushing  indignantly.  "That 
is,  —  it  was  n't  meant  for  one.  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you 
had  just  as  lief  go  as  not.  I  've  got  a  ticket  and  there  are  — 
let's  see"  —  she  took  out  her  ticket  and  counted  —  "there 
are  seven  trips  on  it.  That's  enough.  Would  you  just  as 
lief?" 

"I'd  rather,"  replied  Fox  promptly.  "Come  on,  Henri 
etta.  We 're  going  to  town."  He  looked  at  his  watch.  "Train 
goes  in  fourteen  minutes,  and  that's  the  train  we  take. 
Step  lively,  now." 

Henrietta  giggled  and  Sally  smiled;  and  they  stepped 
lively  and  got  to  the  station  with  two  minutes  to  spare. 
Fox  occupied  that  two  minutes  with  a  rattle  of  airy  nothings 
which  kept  Sally  busy  and  her  mind  off  her  errand;  which 
may  have  been  Fox's  object  or  it  may  not.  For  Sally  had 
not  told  her  errand  yet,  and  how  could  Fox  Sanderson  have 
known  it?  When  they  got  into  the  car,  Sally  was  a  little 
disappointed  because  she  had  not  been  able  to  tell  him. 
She  had  meant  to  —  distinctly  meant  to  during  that  two 
minutes. 

She  had  no  chance  to  tell  him  in  the  train.  The  cars  made 
such  a  noise  that  she  would  have  had  to  shout  it  in  his  ear 
and,  besides,  he  talked  steadily. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,"  he  said,  at  the  end  of  a  stream  of  talk 
of  which  Sally  had  not  heard  half.  "Let's  get  your  father, 
Sally,  and  take  him  with  us  while  you  do  your  errands, 
whatever  they  are.  He'll  be  through  in  the  laboratory,  and 
we'll  just  about  catch  him." 

"All  right,"  Sally  murmured;  and  she  sank  back  in  her 
seat  contentedly. 

She  had  been  sitting  bolt  upright.  She  felt  that  it  was  all 
right  now,  and  she  would  not  need  to  tell  Fox  or  anybody. 
She  felt  very  grateful  to  him,  somehow.  She  felt  still  more 
grateful  to  him  when  he  let  the  conductor  take  all  their  fares 
from  her  ticket  without  a  protest.  Fox  was  looking  out  of 
the  window. 

"It  looks  as  if  we  might  have  some  snow,"  he  remarked. 


38  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Or  it  may  be  rain.  I  hope  it  will  wait  until  we  get 
home." 

When  they  got  to  the  laboratory,  they  found  one  of  the 
cleaners  just  unlocking  the  door.  She  did  n't  know  whether 
the  professor  had  gone  or  not.  He  always  kept  the  door 
locked  after  hours;  but  would  they  go  in?  They  would  and 
did,  but  could  not  find  Professor  Ladue.  Fox  found,  on  his 
desk,  a  beaker  with  a  few  drops  of  a  liquid  in  it.  He  took 
this  up  and  smelt  of  it.  The  beaker  still  held  a  trace  of 
warmth. 

"He  has  just  this  minute  gone,"  he  said.  "  If  we  hurry  I 
think  we  can  catch  him.  I  know  the  way  he  has  probably 
gone." 

"How  do  you  know  he  has  just  gone?"  asked  Sally,  look 
ing  at  him  soberly  and  with  her  customary  directness. 
"How  can  you  tell?" 

"Sherlock  Holmes,"  he  answered.  "You  did  n't  know 
that  I  was  a  detective,  did  you,  Sally?" 

"No,"  said  Sally.   "Are  you?" 

"Seem  to  be,"  Fox  returned.  "Come  on,  or  we'll  lose 
him." 

So  they  hurried,  twisting  and  winding  through  streets 
that  Sally  did  not  know.  They  seemed  to  be  highly  respect 
able  streets.  Sally  wondered  where  they  were  going.  She 
wanted  to  ask  Fox,  but,  evidently,  he  did  n't  want  to  take 
the  time  to  talk.  Henrietta's  eyes  were  brighter  than  usual 
and  she  looked  from  Fox  to  Sally  with  a  curiosity  which  she 
could  not  conceal;  but  Sally,  at  least,  did  not  notice,  and 
Henrietta  said  nothing. 

"There  he  is,"  said  Fox,  at  last. 

They  had  just  turned  the  corner  of  a  street  lined  with 
what  appeared  to  Sally  to  be  rather  imposing  houses.  It 
was  a  highly  respectable  street,  like  the  others  they  had  come 
through,  and  it  was  very  quiet  and  dignified.  Indeed,  there 
was  no  one  in  sight  except  Professor  Ladue,  who  was  saun 
tering  along  with  the  manner  of  the  care-free.  His  coat  was 
unbuttoned  and  blowing  slightly,  although  there  was  that 


CONCERNING  SALLY  39 

chill  in  the  air  that  always  precedes  snow  and  the  wind  was 
rising.  Their  steps  echoed  in  the  quiet  street,  and,  instinct 
ively,  they  walked  more  softly.  Strangely  enough,  they  all 
seemed  to  have  the  same  feeling ;  a  feeling  that  the  professor 
might  suddenly  vanish  if  he  heard  them  and  looked  around. 

"Now,  Sally,"  Fox  continued,  speaking  somewhat  hur 
riedly,  "you  run  and  catch  him  before  he  turns  that  next 
corner.  The  street  around  that  corner  is  only  a  court  with 
a  dozen  houses  on  it.  If  you  don't  catch  him  before  he  goes 
into  the  house  in  the  middle  of  that  block,  give  it  up.  Don't 
try  to  go  in  after  him,  but  come  back.  Henrietta  and  I  will 
be  waiting  for  you.  If  you  get  him,  we  won't  wait.  But  don't 
say  anything  about  our  being  here  unless  he  asks  you.  He 
might  not  like  to  know  that  I  had  followed  him." 

"But,"  protested  Sally,  bewildered,  "aren't  you  going 
with  us?  I  thought  you  were  going  shopping  with  us." 

"  If  we  had  caught  him  before  he  had  left  the  college.  Now, 
it  might  be  embarrassing  —  to  both  your  father  and  to 
me." 

" But  your  tickets!"  wailed  Sally  in  a  distressed  whisper. 
They  had  been  speaking  like  conspirators. 

Fox  laughed  softly.  "I  have  a  few  cents  about  me.  You 
can  make  that  right  some  other  time.  Now,  run!" 

So  Sally  ran.  She  ran  well  and  quietly  and  came  up  with 
her  father  just  after  he  had  turned  that  last  corner.  The 
professor  must  have  been  startled  at  the  unexpectedness  of 
the  touch  upon  his  arm,  for  he  turned  savagely,  prepared, 
apparently,  to  strike. 

"Father!"  cried  Sally;  but  she  did  not  shrink  back. 
"Father!  It's  only  me!" 

The  look  in  Professor  Ladue's  eyes  changed.  Some  fear 
may  have  come  into  it;  a  fear  that  always  seemed  to  be 
latent  where  Sally  was  concerned.  His  look  was  not  pleasant 
to  see  directed  toward  his  own  little  daughter.  The  savage 
expression  was  still  there,  and  a  frown,  denoting  deep  dis 
pleasure. 

"Sally!"  he  exclaimed  angrily.  Then  he  was  silent  for  a 


40  CONCERNING  SALLY 

time;  a  time,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  long  enough  for  him  to 
collect  his  scattered  faculties  and  to  be  able  to  speak  as 
calmly  as  a  professor  should  speak  to  his  daughter,  aged 
ten. 

"  Sally,"  he  said  at  last,  coldly,  "may  I  ask  how  you  came 
here?" 

"Why,"  Sally  replied,  speaking  hastily,  "  I  was  coming  in 
town,  this  afternoon,  —  I  planned  it,  long  ago,  with  mother, 
—  and—" 

"Is  your  mother  with  you?"  the  professor  interrupted. 

To  a  careful  observer  he  might  have  seemed  more  startled 
than  ever;  but  perhaps  Sally  was  not  a  careful  observer. 
At  all  events,  she  gave  no  sign. 

"Mother  had  a  headache  and  could  n't  come,"  said  Sally 
quietly.  She  must  have  been  afraid  that  her  father  would 
ask  other  questions.  It  was  quite  natural  that  he  should 
want  to  know  who  did  come  with  her.  So  she  went  on 
rapidly.  "But  I  thought  I'd  come  just  the  same,  so  I  did, 
and  I  went  to  your  laboratory,  but  you'd  just  gone  and  I 
followed  on  after  and  I  caught  you  just  as  you  turned  this 
corner,  and  now  I  would  like  to  have  you  go  down  to  the 
shops  with  me.  I  want  to  buy  something  for  mother  and 
Charlie.  Will  you  go  with  me,  father?" 

The  professor  did  not  ask  any  of  the  questions  that  Sally 
feared.  Possibly  he  had  as  much  fear  of  the  answers  as  Sally 
had  of  the  questions.  So  he  asked  none  of  the  questions 
that  one  would  think  a  father  would  ask  of  his  little  daughter 
in  such  circumstances.  As  Sally  neared  the  end  of  her  rapid 
speech,  his  eyes  had  narrowed. 

"So,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  gather  from  what  you  have  left 
unsaid  that  your  mother  sent  you  after  me." 

There  was  the  faintest  suspicion  of  a  sneer  in  his  voice, 
but  he  tried  to  speak  lightly.  As  had  happened  many  times 
before,  he  did  not  succeed. 

"She  didn't,"  answered  Sally,  trying  to  be  calm.  Her 
eyes  burned.  "She  did  n't  want  me  to  come.  I  came  on  my 
own  hook." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  41 

"  It  might  have  been  wiser,  Sally,"  the  professor  observed 
judicially,  "to  do  what  your  mother  wished." 

Sally  made  no  reply.  She  would  have  liked  to  ask  him  if 
he  did  —  if  he  ever  did  what  her  mother  wished. 

Sally  saying  nothing  and  seeming  somewhat  abashed,  the 
professor  found  himself  calmer.  "So  that  course  did  not 
commend  itself  to  your  judgment?  Did  n't  think  it  best  to 
mind  your  mother.  And  you  went  to  the  laboratory  and  — 
who  let  you  in?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"One  of  the  cleaners." 

"Oh,  one  of  the  cleaners.  A  very  frowzy  lady  in  a  faded 
black  skirt  and  no  waist  worth  mentioning,  I  presume." 
The  professor  seemed  relieved.  "And  you  went  in,  and  did 
n't  find  me.  Very  natural.  I  was  not  there.  And  having 
made  up  your  mind,  from  internal  evidence,  I  presume, 
which  way  I  had  gone,  —  but  who  told  you?  —  oh,  never 
mind.  It's  quite  immaterial.  A  very  successful  trail,  Sally; 
or  shall  I  say  shadow?  You  must  have  the  makings  of  a 
clever  detective  in  you.  I  should  n't  have  suspected  it. 
Never  in  the  world." 

The  professor  was  quite  calm  by  this  time ;  rather  pleased 
with  himself,  especially  as  he  had  chanced  to  remark  the 
tears  standing  in  his  little  daughter's  eyes. 

"And  I  never  suspected  it!"  he  repeated.  Then  he 
laughed ;  but  it  was  a  mirthless  laugh.  If  he  had  known  how 
empty  it  would  sound,  the  professor  would  never  have  done  it. 

At  his  laugh,  two  of  the  aforesaid  tears  splashed  on  the 
sidewalk,  in  spite  of  Sally's  efforts  to  prevent.  The  tears 
may  not  have  been  wholly  on  her  own  account.  She  may 
have  felt  some  pity  for  her  father's  pitiful  pretense. 

She  bit  her  lip.  "Will  you  go  with  me  now,  father?"  she 
asked,  as  soon  as  she  could  trust  herself  to  speak  at  all. 

It  was  always  somewhat  difficult  to  account  for  the  pro 
fessor's  actions  and  to  assign  the  motive  which  really  guided. 
The  professor,  himself,  was  probably  unaware,  at  the  time, 
of  having  any  motive.  So  why  seek  one?  It  need  not  con 
cern  us. 


42  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Go  with  you,  Sally?  Why,  yes,  indeed.  Certainly.  Why 
not?  "  he  agreed  with  an  alacrity  which  was  almost  unseemly ; 
as  if  he  challenged  anybody  to  say  that  that  was  not  just 
what  he  had  meant  to  do,  all  along.  "  I  have  some  presents 
to  buy  —  for  your  mother  and  Charlie.  And  for  somebody 
else,  too,"  he  murmured,  in  a  tone  that  was,  no  doubt, 
meant  for  Sally  to  hear.  She  heard  it. 

Sally  smiled  up  at  him  and  took  his  hand,  which  she  sel 
dom  did.  It  is  true  that  she  seldom  had  the  chance.  Then 
she  glanced  quickly  around,  to  see  whether  Fox  and  Hen 
rietta  were  in  sight.  The  street  was  deserted. 

Professor  Ladue  buttoned  his  coat;  but  the  wind  was 
rising  still,  and  the  chill  increasing,  and  his  coat  was  rather 
light  for  the  season.  What  more  natural  than  that  he  should 
wish  it  buttoned?  But  Sally  would  have  unbuttoned  her 
coat  gladly.  She  would  not  have  felt  the  chill ;  and  she  almost 
skipped  beside  him,  as  they  walked  rapidly  down  toward 
streets  which  were  not  deserted,  but  crowded  with  people. 
As  they  went,  he  talked  more  and  more  light  nonsense,  and 
Sally  was  happy;  which  was  a  state  much  to  be  desired,  but 
unusual  enough  to  be  worthy  of  remark. 

They  were  very  late  in  getting  home.  With  the  crowds 
and  the  snow  which  had  begun  to  fall,  there  was  no  knowing 
what  the  trains  would  be  up  to.  Trains  have  an  unpleasant 
habit  of  being  late  whenever  there  is  any  very  special  reason 
for  wishing  to  get  in  promptly.  But  I  suppose  there  is  always 
somebody  on  any  train  who  has  a  very  special  reason  for 
wishing  to  get  in  promptly.  There  was  on  this  train.  Sally 
had  a  bad  case  of  the  fidgets,  thinking  of  her  mother,  who 
must  be  waiting  and  waiting  and  wondering  why  her  little 
daughter  did  n't  come.  It  would  be  bad  for  her  head.  The 
professor,  too,  —  but  I  don't  know  about  the  professor ;  he 
may  have  been  in  no  hurry. 

When  at  last  they  did  get  home,  after  a  long  wade  through 
snow  up  to  her  shoetops,  Sally  ran  up  to  her  mother's  room, 
shedding  her  wet  and  snowy  things  as  she  ran.  She  knocked 
softly  and,  at  the  first  sound  of  her  mother's  voice,  she  went 


CONCERNING  SALLY  43 

in  and  shut  the  door  gently  behind  her.  The  room  was 
nearly  pitch  dark,  but  she  could  see  the  bed,  dimly,  and  she 
ran  to  it  and  ran  into  her  mother's  arms. 

"Bless  you,  Sally,  darling!"  Mrs.  Ladue  cried  softly. 
"You  don't  know  how  glad  I  am  to  have  you  back." 

"I  got  him,  mother,  dear,"  Sally  whispered.  "I  got  him. 
But  it  was  only  by  the  skin  of  my  teeth." 


CHAPTER   VI 

IF  Sally  did  get  the  professor  only  by  the  skin  of  her 
teeth,  she  had  no  need  to  keep  that  precarious  hold 
upon  him.  Providence  or  the  elements,  or  whatever  you 
wish  to  call  it,  took  that  matter  in  hand  and  attended  to  it 
with  the  thoroughness  usual  in  cases  in  which  it  undertakes 
to  attend  to  anything.  For  Sally  awoke  the  next  morning 
to  find  her  world  bound  fast  in  ice.  Every  twig  bore  its  load 
except  such  as  had  refused  to  bear  it.  The  birches,  in  scat 
tered  clumps,  bowed  down  to  the  ground,  and  the  hard  crust 
of  the  snow  was  littered  with  broken  branches. 

Sally  stood  at  her  window,  looking  out.  It  was  beautiful, 
there  was  no  denying  it;  but,  as  she  looked  at  the  birches, 
every  one  of  them  bent  to  the  ground,  with  the  freshly 
fallen  snow  covering  it,  and  its  top  held  fast  under  the  crust, 
her  lip  curled  a  little.  She  did  n't  think  much  of  a  tree  which 
could  n't  hold  itself  up.  It  seemed  to  her  too  much  like  sav 
ing  yourself  at  the  price  of  your  self-respect.  Better  be  a 
self-respecting,  upstanding  tree,  even  if  you  did  lose  an  arm 
or  two ;  better  to  go  down  altogether,  if  need  be,  but  fighting. 
Yes,  in  spite  of  their  beauty,  she  despised  the  birches.  And, 
with  some  such  thoughts  as  these,  she  turned  from  the  win 
dow  and  dressed  quickly. 

Nothing  came  that  morning.  A  horse  could  hardly  get 
through  that  crust  with  safety  to  his  legs.  In  consequence, 
the  professor  had  no  cream.  Sally  fully  expected  an  outburst 
of  rage,  which,  with  the  professor,  took  the  form  of  acidly 
sarcastic  remarks.  His  remarks,  while  preserving  outward 
forms  of  politeness,  usually  resulted  in  reducing  Mrs.  Ladue 
to  tears  as  soon  as  she  had  gained  the  seclusion  of  her  own 
room.  It  was  not  that  Professor  Ladue  held  his  wife  ac 
countable  for  such  things  as  heavy  snowstorms  or  sleet- 


CONCERNING  SALLY  45 

storms  —  upon  full  consideration.  Such  things  are  usually 
denominated  "acts  of  God,"  and,  in  contracts,  the  contract 
ors  are  expressly  relieved  from  responsibility  for  failure  of 
performance  in  consequence.  The  professor  himself,  upon 
full  consideration,  would  have  held  such  exemption  quite 
proper.  But  his  wife  was  not  a  contractor  and  was  entitled 
to  no  such  exemptions.  A  professor  was  entitled  to  cream  for 
his  breakfast. 

Sally,  coming  down  with  Charlie,  found  her  father  eating 
his  breakfast  in  solitude  and  in  apparent  content,  and  with 
out  cream;  certainly  without  cream.  Mrs.  Ladue  had  not 
appeared.  Perhaps  she  was  tired  of  being  reduced  to  tears 
on  such  occasions  and  had  more  confidence  in  Sally  than  she 
had  in  herself.  Certainly  the  professor  was  less  apt  to  in 
dulge  his  taste  for  acid  sarcasm  with  Sally.  There  is  little 
satisfaction  to  be  got  out  of  it  when  the  only  effect  upon 
the  hearer  is  a  barely  perceptible  rise  in  color  and  a  tighten 
ing  of  the  lips.  At  all  events,  he  did  not  do  what  was  ex 
pected  of  him. 

"Good-morning,  Sally,"  he  said  pleasantly. 

Sally  was  much  surprised.  She  was  so  much  surprised 
that  the  blood  surged  into  her  cheeks  in  a  flood.  That  was 
a  greater  effect  than  could  have  been  produced  by  acid 
sarcasm  in  any  amount.  The  professor  might  have  noted 
that.  Perhaps  he  did. 

"  Good  -  morning,  father,"  Sally  replied,  smiling.  She 
hesitated  for  a  fraction  of  a  second,  then,  yielding  to  her 
impulse,  she  put  her  arm  around  his  neck  and  kissed  him 
on  the  cheek.  "Good-morning."  And  she  went  quickly  to 
her  seat,  her  cheeks  blazing. 

The  professor  was  so  astonished  at  this  act  of  Sally's,  — 
an  act  as  difficult  to  foresee  and  to  provide  against  as  an 
act  of  God,  —  he  was  so  thoroughly  astonished,  I  say,  that 
he  spilled  some  of  the  coffee  which  had  no  cream  in  it.  But 
let  us  hope  he  would  not  have  wanted  to  provide  against 
that  act  of  God. 

"Well,  Sally,"  he  said,  laughing  lightly,  "it's  surprising 


46  CONCERNING  SALLY 

to  think  what  the  weather  can  do  when  it  tries.  Only  yes 
terday  afternoon,  bare  ground  and  scarcely  a  hint  of  what 
was  coming.  Now,  here  we  are,  tied  up." 

"Tied  up?"  Sally  asked. 

"Tied  up,"  he  repeated.  "There's  little  doubt  about  it. 
No  milkman."  He  waved  his  hand.  "And  there'll  be  no 
grocer  and  no  anybody  else.  You'll  see.  No  butcher  — 
meat  man  —  we  don't  have  butchers,  now.  Just  think  of 
that,  Sally.  No  meat  until  spring.  How  will  you  like  that? 
We  should  have  been  keeping  chickens  and  pigs  and  we 
ought  to  have  cows  and  a  calf  or  two.  Then  I  would  take 
my  axe  in  my  hand  and  my  knife  and  I  would  sally  out  to 
the  barn.  You  would  hear  sounds  of  murder  and  we  should 
have  fresh  meat.  Fresh  meat!"  The  professor  looked  fe 
rocious. 

"And  no  trains,"  he  added  meditatively.  "I  haven't 
heard  a  train  this  morning  and  I  don't  expect  to." 

"Well,"  said  Sally,  "you  don't  have  to  take  them.  What 
do  you  care?" 

"Ah,  true,"  he  replied  in  the  same  meditative  tone. 
"Very  just,  Sally.  I  don't  have  to  take  them,  and  what  do 
I  care?  What  do  I?  Answer,  nothing." 

The  professor  waved  his  hand  again  and  drank  his  coffee. 
An  irrepressible  chuckle  came  from  Sally.  She  said  nothing, 
but  waited  for  her  father  to  resume.  He  always  did  resume 
when  he  was  in  this  mood,  which  was  not  often. 

He  put  down  his  empty  cup.  "And  what  do  we  do?  We 
finish  our  breakfast,  which  may  be  a  matter  of  some  time, 
judging  from  quantity  alone."  He  pointed  to  Sally's  plate 
and  to  Charlie's.  Charlie  had  been  eating  industriously  ever 
since  he  sat  down.  "We  finish  our  breakfast  and  we  loaf 
awhile,  and  then  we  bundle  up  and  try  to  shovel  out;  you, 
Sally,  and  I  and  Charlie." 

Here  he  pointed  a  finger  at  Charlie,  who  emitted  a  roar  of 
delight. 

"An'  can  I  shovel  with  my  little  snow-shovel?  Can  I?" 

The  professor  poured  for  himself  another  cup  of  coffee. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  47 

"You  are  to  have  the  felicity  of  shoveling  with  your  little 
snow-shovel,  Charlie.  See  that  you  do  good  work  with  it. 
And  Sally  shall  take  the  middle-sized  snow-shovel,  and  I  will 
take  the  GREAT  BIG  snow-shovel." 

Another  roar  from  Charlie,  who  began  to  eat  faster. 

"This  coffee,  Sally,"  continued  the  professor,  "would  be 
better  if  the  storm  had  been  less  severe.  But  it  does  very 
well.  It  is  most  excellent  coffee.  It  is  probably  better  for 
my  health  than  it  would  be  with  cream.  For,  do  you  know, 
Sally,  I  am  well  convinced  that  cream  with  coffee  forms 
quite  another  substance,  which  is  deleterious  to  health  and 
destructive  of  the  ability  to  sleep,  although  affecting  in  no 
way  the  desire  to  do  so.  And  that,  Sally,  is  most  un 
pleasant." 

Professor  Ladue  was  speaking  in  his  lecture-room  voice 
and  very  seriously.  Sally  was  smiling.  As  he  finished,  the 
smile  grew  into  a  chuckle  and  she  choked.  Charlie,  having 
taken  an  extraordinarily  large  mouthful,  and  being  diverted 
from  the  ensuing  process  by  the  choking  of  Sally,  also 
choked. 

"Sally,"  said  the  professor  calmly,  "your  little  brother 
needs  your  attention.  He  needs  it  rather  badly,  it  seems  to 
me."  For  Charlie  had  his  mouth  open  and  was  getting  red 
in  the  face. 

Sally  got  up  hastily  and  pounded  Charlie  on  the  back. 
That  measure  being  ineffective,  she  shook  him  violently. 
He  gasped  twice. 

"Want  to  race,"  he  exploded. 

The  professor  looked  surprised.  "An  eating  race, 
Charlie?"  he  asked.  "Why,  my  dear  boy,  I  should  n't  stand 
a  ghost  of  a  chance  with  you.  We  might  make  it  a  handicap, 
but,  even  then — " 

"Shoveling  race,"  Charlie  explained.  "You  have  the  great 
big  snow-shovel  an'  Sally  have  the  middle-sized  shovel  an' 
I  have  the  little  snow-shovel,  an'  we  race  to  see  who  can 
get  the  most  done." 

"Brilliant  idea,  Charlie,  positively  glittering,"  his  father 


48  CONCERNING  SALLY 

returned.  "But  it  would  hardly  be  fair  to  start  us  all  from 
scratch,  I  am  afraid.  Better  make  it  a  handicap,  eh?" 

"Yes,"  Charlie  replied,  not  knowing  in  the  least  what  a 
handicap  was. 

Neither  did  Sally.  "What  is  a  handicap,  father  ?"  she  asked. 

Her  father  explained. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  approving,  "then  it  makes  the  race  fair, 
does  n't  it?  Every  one  has  as  much  chance  of  winning  as 
everybody  else.  I  think  that  is  nice." 

"  It  is  an  attempt  in  that  direction,  Sally.  But  there  are 
many  things  about  it,  about  —  er  —  racing  —  of  any  kind, 
that  it  is  just  as  well  you  should  n't  know.  So  I  will  not  try 
to  explain.  If  every  one  concerned  acts  fairly,  Sally,  and 
with  good  judgment,  it  is  nice,  as  you  say." 

Sally  was  not  going  to  be  put  off.  "Why  does  n't  every 
body  act  fairly?" 

The  professor  waved  his  hand  and  shrugged  his  shoulders ; 
but  before  he  could  make  any  other  reply,  the  door  opened 
softly.  He  welcomed  the  opening  of  the  door.  It  put  a  stop 
to  Sally's  questioning,  which  was  apt  to  become  embarrass 
ing,  in  certain  cases. 

A  glance  at  Sally's  face  would  have  told  Professor  Ladue 
who  had  opened  the  door,  but  it  is  to  be  supposed  that  he 
knew.  Sally  jumped  up  and  ran;  and  the  professor  rose  — 
rose  with  some  alacrity  —  and  turned. 

"Good  morning,  Sarah,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "We  are 
all  glad  to  see  you.  I  hope  you  are  feeling  better." 

Mrs.  Ladue  smiled  happily.  One  would  have  thought 
that  Professor  Ladue  would  have  tried  that  manner  oftener. 
It  produced  much  effect  with  little  effort;  but  I  spoke  hastily. 
I  do  not  know  how  much  effort  it  was. 

"Thank  you,  Charlie  —  Charlie,  dear,"  she  answered, 
hesitating  a  little;  "I  do  feel  very  much  better.  I  heard  all 
the  happy  noise  down  here  and  I  had  to  come  down." 

"Don't  apologize,  my  dear,"  he  protested;  "don't  apolo 
gize,  or  we  shall  have  to  believe  that  you  did  n't  mean  to 
come  because  you  did  n't  want  to." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  49 

Mrs.  Ladue  took  her  seat,  but  made  no  reply.  There  was 
a  faint  color  in  her  cheeks  and  she  looked  almost  shyly  at 
her  husband.  Sally  was  gazing  at  her  mother,  but  not  in 
wonder.  There  was  no  fathoming  Sally.  She  reached  out 
and  pressed  her  mother's  hand. 

"You  look  so  very  pretty,  mother,"  she  whispered. 

The  color  in  Mrs.  Ladue's  cheeks  became  deeper.  "  Hush, 
dear,"  she  whispered  in  return.  "It  must  be  because  I  am 
happy." 

"I  wish  we  could  always  be  happy,"  Sally  whispered 
again;  "all  of  us." 

There  was  no  way  of  knowing  whether  her  father  had 
heard  these  whispers.  He  might  have  heard,  but  he  gave  no 
sign,  looking  into  his  empty  cup  and  playing  with  the  spoon. 

"Sally,"  he  said  suddenly,  "what  do  you  suppose  my  little 
lizard  would  have  done  if  he  had  waked  up  some  morning 
and  found  his  swamp  covered  with  this?"  The  professor 
waved  his  hand  toward  the  window. 

Sally  was  much  interested.  "Would  he  have  flown  a  way?" 

"Wrong,"  cried  the  professor,  getting  up  and  walking  to 
the  window.  "  Guess  again." 

Sally  gave  the  question  some  thought.  "I  don't  know," 
she  said  at  last. 

"Wrong  again.   Next!  Charlie!" 

Charlie  had  his  mouth  full.  He  looked  up  in  surprise. 
"What?"  he  spluttered. 

"What  would  my  little  lizard  have  done  this  morn 
ing?" 

Charlie  was  no  Fletcherite.  He  swallowed  his  mouthful 
very  nearly  whole.  Then  he  gasped  a  little  which  is  not  to 
be  wondered  at. 

"Little  lizard  would  take  his  little  snow-shovel  and  shovel 
a  great  big  place — "  he  began.  Then  an  idea  seemed  to 
strike  him  and  he  stopped  with  his  mouth  open.  "No,"  he 
cried;  "little  lizard  would  be  dead." 

"Very  possibly,  Charlie.  That's  the  nearest  answer,  so 
far."  The  professor  turned  and  regarded  his  son  curiously. 


50  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"I  should  really  like  to  know  how  you  arrived  at  that  con 
clusion." 

"Lizard  died  a  long  time  ago,"  Charlie  answered. 
"Couldn't  wake  up  this  morning  because  you've  got  the 
bones  upstairs." 

The  professor  laughed.  "A  very  just  observation,"  he 
remarked.  "You  have  a  logical  mind,  Charles." 

Charles  slid  down  from  his  chair.  "I'm  through  my 
breakfast,"  he  announced.  "Want  to  shovel." 

"You  forget  our  programme,  Charlie,"  said  his  father. 
"We  are  to  loaf  now.  It  is  always  best  to  eat  slowly,  masti 
cate  your  food  well,  refrain  from  drinking  when  you  are 
thirsty,  and  stand  for  half  an  hour  after  eating.  There  are 
other  things  which  I  forget.  But  we  will  loaf  now." 

The  professor  lit  a  cigarette,  after  due  preliminaries. 
Mrs.  Ladue  had  finished,  apparently.  She  had  come  down 
rather  to  enjoy  the  rare  occasion  than  to  eat.  Perhaps  it 
was  a  knowledge  of  that  fact  which  had  kept  the  professor 
going  and  a  desire  —  an  inexplicable  desire  —  on  his  part 
to  keep  her  in  her  state  of  happiness.  It  was  seldom  possible 
to  account  for  his  actions.  At  all  events,  he  was  accomplish 
ing  that  end.  It  was  a  great  pity  that  his  desires  did  not 
always  run  in  that  direction.  It  would  have  been  so  easy; 
so  very  easy  for  him,  and  it  would  have  made  his  wife  so 
very  happy.  But  the  time  when  that  wpuld  have  done  any 
great  good  may  have  passed  already. 

The  professor  followed  out  hi§  programme  religiously, 
talking  when  he  felt  like  it,  always  a  pleasant  and  cheerful 
flow  of  irresponsible  talk,  and  loafing  conscientiously  for 
half  an  hour.  Mrs.  Lqclue  sat  still,  saying  little,  afraid  to 
move  lest  the  movement  break  the  spell.  Charlie  had 
slipped  out,  unnoticed. 

Presently  there  was  a  great  noise  on  the  cellar  stairs, 
sounding  like  distant  thunder.  The  noise  stopped  for  a 
moment. 

"What's  going  on?"  asked  the  professor  casually.  "So 
cialists  in  the  cellar?  Not  that  I  care,"  he  added,  with  a 


CONCERNING  SALLY  51 

wave  of  his  cigarette.  "  Mere  curiosity.  I  should  be  glad  to 
meet  any  socialists;  but  not  in  the  cellar." 

Mrs.  Ladue  laughed  gently.  It  was  a  long  time  since  the 
professor  had  heard  her  laugh.  That  thought  occurred  to 
him. 

"You  will,  I  think.  They  are  opening  the  cellar  door  now. 
There  they  come." 

For  the  noise  had  resumed,  and  was  approaching  along 
the  hall.  The  door  of  the  dining-room  swung  open  suddenly 
and  Charlie  entered,  earnest  and  intent  and  covered  with 
dust  and  cobwebs.  Behind  him  dragged  three  snow-shovels, 
also  covered  with  dust  and  cobwebs. 

Sally  sprang  for  him.   "Oh,  Charlie  — " 

He  brushed  her  aside.  "  I  brung  your  shovel,  father,"  he 
said,  "an'  Sally's.  I  could  n't  lift  'em  all  at  once,  an'  so 
I  dragged  'em." 

The  professor  bowed.  "So  I  gathered,"  he  replied.  "I 
thank  you,  Charles." 

"But,  Charlie,"  Sally  cried,  "you're  all  over  dust  and  so 
are  the  shovels.  They  ought  to  have  been  dusted." 

Charlie  had  dropped  the  shovels  on  the  floor,  thinking 
his  mission  ended.  Now  he  leaned  over  and  thoughtfully 
wiped  the  shovels,  one  after  another,  with  his  hand. 

"They  are,"  he  said,  gazing  at  his  grimy  hand,  "aren't 
they?  But  it  was  dark  an'  I  could  n't  see.  Besides,  the 
snow '11  clean  'em.  I  want  to  shovel  an'  race,  father,"  he 
added,  somewhat  impatiently.  "Is  n't  it  time  yet?" 

"Charlie,"  said  his  father,  throwing  away  his  cigarette, 
"in  the  words  of  Friar  Bacon's  brass  head,  time  is.  Come 
on." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  next  month  passed  very  pleasantly  for  the  Ladues. 
Sleet-storms  cannot  last  forever  and,  the  morning 
after  Christmas,  Sally  heard  the  trains  running  with 
some  regularity.  She  was  anxious  accordingly  and  she 
watched  her  father  closely.  But  he  did  not  seem  to  care 
whether  trains  ever  ran  or  not.  His  pleasant  mood  lasted, 
too:  the  mood  of  light  banter,  in  which  he  appeared  to  care 
something  for  his  wife  and  children;  something,  if  not 
enough.  They  were  grateful  for  that  little,  although  they 
knew  very  well  that  it  was  but  a  mood  that  might  change 
utterly  in  five  minutes.  It  did  not  change  for  a  surprisingly 
long  time,  and  Sally  almost  held  her  breath  at  first,  while 
she  waited  for  it  to  pass.  It  would  have  been  a  relief  —  yes, 
distinctly  it  would  have  been  a  relief,  at  first.  But  that  feel 
ing  passed,  too. 

In  short,  the  professor  was  good,  and  Sally  was  happy. 
After  the  tension  of  that  first  expectation  was  over  she  was 
very  nearly  as  happy  as  she  should  have  been  always.  Chil 
dren  have  a  right  to  happiness  —  to  freedom  from  real 
worries  —  as  far  as  we  can  compass  that  end ;  and  Sally  had 
been  deprived  of  her  birthright.  I  wonder  whether  the 
professor  had  ever  realized  that ;  whether  he  had  ever  given 
it  a  thought. 

Mrs.  Ladue  was  happy,  too,  because  Sally  was  happy  and 
because  her  husband  was  kind  to  her,  temporarily.  He  was 
not  as  kind  as  he  might  have  been,  but  then,  he  might  have 
been  so  very  much  worse.  He  might  have  beaten  her.  He 
had  been  accustomed  to  beat  her,  figuratively,  for  some 
years.  At  first,  too,  her  head  seemed  really  better.  At  the 
end  of  a  week  of  the  new  order  of  things,  she  spoke  of  it  to 
Sally.  She  knew  better  than  to  mention  the  subject  of  head 
aches  to  the  professor. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  53 

Sally  was  overjoyed.  She  buried  her  head  in  a  pillow  that 
happened  to  be  handy,  and  wept.  A  strange  thing  to  do ! 
"Oh,  mother,  dear!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  mother,  dear,  if  it 
only  will  stay  so!" 

Mrs.  Ladue  gathered  the  child  into  her  arms.  "There 
darling!"  she  said  softly.  "There,  my  dear  little  daughter! 
We '11  hope  it  will." 

But  when,  at  the  end  of  a  month,  Sally  looked  back  and 
compared,  she  knew  that  it  had  n't.  It  had  been  a  happy 
month,  though.  Fox  and  Henrietta  had  been  in  every  day, 
and,  while  Sally  played  —  or  was  supposed  to  be  playing  — 
with  Henrietta,  Fox  sometimes  sat  with  her  mother.  Mrs. 
Ladue  became  very  fond  of  Fox.  He  did  n't  talk  much,  nor 
did  she.  Indeed,  Sally  thought,  in  that  fit  of  retrospection, 
that  Fox  had  seemed  to  be  watching  her  mother;  at  least, 
occasionally.  And  Fox,  saying  little,  saw  much.  Sally 
knew.  There  was  no  telling  how  she  knew  it,  but  she  did; 
so  she  went  to  him,  rather  troubled,  and  asked  what  he 
thought  about  her  mother's  health. 

He  considered,  looking  seriously  at  her  for  a  long  time. 

"Well,  Sally,"  he  answered  at  last,  "it  is  n't  any  better, 
on  the  whole.  I  should  think  she  ought  to  consult  some  doc 
tor  about  it  —  some  good  doctor." 

"Oh,"  said  Sally  in  a  low  voice,  "you  —  I  hope  you  don't 
think—" 

"  I  don't  think,  Sally,"  Fox  interrupted.  "  I  know  there  is 
some  cause  beyond  my  limited  knowledge,  and  some  one 
who  really  knows  should  see  your  mother  —  if  any  one  really 
knows.  Doctors  don't  know  much,  after  all." 

Sally  considered,  in  her  turn,  for  a  long  time,  her  eyes 
searching  Fox's  face. 

"Then,"  she  concluded,  sighing,  "I  shall  have  to  speak 
to  father  about  it.  Well,  —  I  will." 

"That's  the  best  thing  to  do,"  he  replied.  "And,  Sally, 
remember,  if  he  does  n't  receive  the  suggestion  favorably, 
you  are  to  let  me  know." 

"He  won't,"  said  Sally,  with  a  faint  little  smile;  "that  is, 


54  CONCERNING  SALLY 

he  never  did.  I  let  you  know  now.  He  may,"  she  added 
doubtfully.  "He  has  been  nice  for  a  long  time."  Sally 
flushed  at  this  implied  confession,  but  why  should  she  not 
make  it?  Fox  knew. 

"You  try  it,  Sally,  and  let  me  know  how  you  come  out." 

So  Sally  tried  it.  It  may  have  been  a  mistake,  but  how 
should  Sally  have  foreseen?  It  was  as  likely  that,  at  the 
worst,  she  but  hastened  her  father's  action ;  touched  off  the 
charge  prematurely.  The  explosion  would  have  come. 

There  was  no  beating  about  the  bush.  "Father,"  Sally 
began  soberly,  "don't  you  think  that  mother  ought  to  see 
some  good  doctor?  I  do." 

If  her  heart  beat  a  little  faster,  as  she  spoke,  there  was 
no  tremor  in  her  voice. 

Professor  Ladue  looked  up.  He  had  been  prepared  to 
throw  back  some  light  answer  and  to  see  Sally  smile  in 
response;  perhaps  to  hear  her  chuckle.  But,  deuce  take  it, 
there  was  no  knowing  what  that  confounded  child  would 
say  next.  It  was  presuming  upon  his  good  nature.  It 
occurred  to  the  professor  that  he  had  been  good-natured 
for  an  unreasonably  long  time.  He  was  surprised  and  he 
was  annoyed. 

Meanwhile  that  confounded  child  was  looking  at  him  out 
of  sombre  gray  eyes,  waiting  for  his  reply.  As  the  professor's 
look  met  those  eyes,  they  seemed  to  see  right  through  him, 
and  the  sharp  answer  which  trembled  on  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  was  left  unsaid.  It  was  astonishing  how  often  that 
happened.  The  professor  was  aware  of  it!  —  uncomfortably 
aware  —  and  the  knowledge  annoyed  him  the  more.  The 
professor  was  to  be  excused.  It  is  most  unpleasant  to  have 
one's  naked  soul  exposed  to  the  view  of  one's  little  daughter. 
One's  soul  needs  to  be  a  pretty  good  sort  of  a  soul  to  stand 
that,  without  making  its  owner  squirm.  And  the  professor's 
soul  was  —  well,  it  was  his;  the  only  one  he  had.  But  he 
did  squirm,  actually  and  in  the  flesh. 

He  tried  to  speak  lightly,  but  his  look  shifted.  He  could 
not  meet  Sally's  eyes  without  speaking  the  truth.  "What 


CONCERNING  SALLY  55 

is  the  matter  with  your  mother,  Sally?"  he  asked.  "Stom 
ach-ache  or  toothache?" 

Sally  did  not  smile.  "Her  headaches.  They  are  getting 
worse." 

"Pouf!"  said  the  professor,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 
"Everybody  has  headaches.  What's  a  headache?',' 

"I  don't  know,"  Sally  replied,  "and  she  doesn't  and  I 
think  she  ought  to." 

"The  definition,"  remarked  the  professor  coldly,  "is  to 
be  found  in  the  dictionary,  I  have  no  doubt.  You  might 
look  it  up  and  tell  her." 

"And  so  I  think,"  Sally  continued,  as  if  he  had  not  spoken, 
"that  mother  ought  to  see  a  doctor;  a  doctor  that  knows 
about  headaches." 

"Oh,"  said  the  professor,  more  coldly  than  before.  "So 
you  would  like  to  have  a  specialist  called  in ;  a  specialist  in 
headaches." 

"I  don't  know  whether  that's  what  you  call  them," 
Sally  returned  bravely.  "If  it  is,  then  I  would." 

Her  father  had  turned  toward  her,  but  he  did  not  look  at 
her.  "  Most  interesting !"  He  got  a  cigarette  from  the  drawer 
and  proceeded  to  beat  out  some  of  the  tobacco.  "Doctor  — 
er  —  what 's-his-name,  from  the  village,  would  n't  do,  then?" 

"No,  he  would  n't."  There  was  just  a  suspicion  of  a  quiver 
in  Sally's  voice.  "He  does  n't  know  enough." 

"Indeed!  You  have  not  communicated  your  opinion  of 
his  knowledge,  or  his  lack  of  it,  to  him,  I  take  it?" 

Sally  shook  her  head.  She  could  not  have  spoken,  even  if 
the  question  had  called  for  a  reply. 

"Do  you  know  what  a  specialist  charges,  Sally?" 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

"For  taking  a  case  like  your  mother's,  Sally,"  he  said 
slowly,  "which  would  be  nuts  to  him,  I  have  no  doubt,  his 
charge  would  be  more,  in  a  week,  than  I  could  pay  in  ten 
years." 

" It  is  very  important,"  Sally  urged.  "It  is  very  import 
ant  for  mother." 


56  CONCERNING  SALLY 

The  professor  rose.  "Much  as  I  regret  the  necessity,  I 
feel  obliged  to  decline."  He  made  her  a  bow.  "No  special 
ists  for  this  family.  If  your  mother  feels  the  need  of  a  physi 
cian,  let  her  call  Doctor  what  's-his-name  from  the  village." 

Sally  turned  to  go  without  a  word. 

"And,  Sally,"  her  father  added,  "be  kind  enough  to  tell 
your  mother  that  important  matters  at  the  college  require 
my  attention.  She  is  not  to  be  alarmed  if  I  fail  to  come  in 
my  usual  train.  I  may  be  kept  late." 

The  phrase  sounded  familiar.  It  was  the  old  formula 
which  Sally  had  hoped  would  not  be  used  again.  She  went 
out  quietly,  feeling  responsible.  It  was  absurd,  of  course, 
but  she  could  not  help  it.  She  meant  to  find  Fox  and  tell 
him;  but  not  quite  yet.  She  could  n't  bear  it  yet. 

The  matters  at  the  college  must  have  been  very  important, 
for  they  —  or  something  —  kept  Professor  Ladue  late,  as 
he  had  seemed  to  fear ;  the  important  matters  —  or  some 
thing  —  must  have  kept  him  too  late  for  the  last  train  that 
night.  To  be  sure,  Sally  did  not  know  anything  about  it, 
at  the  time.  She  had  not  indulged  a  hope  of  anything  else, 
and  had  gone  to  bed  and  to  sleep  as  usual.  For  Sally  was  a 
healthy  little  animal,  and  she  was  asleep  in  a  very  few  min 
utes  after  her  head  had  touched  the  pillow.  Her  eyes  may 
have  been  wet.  Mrs.  Ladue  went  to  bed,  too.  Her  eyes 
were  not  wet,  but  there  was  an  ache  in  her  head  and  another 
just  above  her  heart.  She  may  have  gone  to  sleep  at  once 
or  she  may  not.  It  is  conceivable  that  she  lay  there,  with  her 
two  aches,  until  after  the  last  train  had  got  in. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  next  forenoon  before  Sally  got 
a  chance  to  tell  Fox  about  it;  and  Fox  listened,  not  too  sym 
pathetically.  That  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  best  way  to 
treat  it.  He  would  have  made  light  of  it,  even,  for  Sally 
was  oppressed  by  the  sense  of  her  own  responsibility;  but 
Sally  would  have  none  of  it. 

"Don't,  Fox,  please,"  she  said. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "  I  won't,  then.  But  don't  you  worry, 
Sally.  We'll  have  your  mother  fixed  up,  all  right,  yet," 


CONCERNING  SALLY  57 

"How?  "she  asked. 

"I  haven't  decided.  But  I'm  going  to  bend  the  whole 
power  of  a  great  mind  to  the  question.  When  I  've  found  the 
best  way  to  do  it,  I  'm  going  to  do  it.  You'll  see." 

Sally  sighed  with  relief.  She  had  not  got  beyond  the  stage 
of  thinking  that  Fox  could  do  anything  that  he  tried  to  do. 
Perhaps  he  could. 

They  were  down  by  the  gate,  Fox  leaning  upon  it  and 
Sally  standing  on  a  bar  and  swinging  it  gently.  Occasion 
ally  she  looked  down  the  road. 

"Here  comes  father,"  she  said  suddenly,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Stay  where  you  are,  Sally."  Fox  checked  her  impulse  to 
run. 

The  professor  was  walking  fast  and  he  came  in  at  the  gate 
almost  immediately.  Sally  had  dismounted.  He  looked 
annoyed  and  would  have  passed  without  a  word. 

"Good-morning,"  said  Fox  cheerfully. 

The  professor  turned,  giving  Fox  one  of  his  smiles  which 
was  not  a  smile  at  all.  If  the  professor  had  chanced  to  turn 
one  of  those  smiles  upon  a  too  confiding  dog,  the  dog  would 
have  put  his  tail  between  his  legs  and  run.  Vivisection  came 
after. 

"Good-morning,"  said  the  professor  acidly.  "I  shall  be 
obliged  to  delay  our  session  for  an  hour." 

"Very  well,  sir,  whenever  it  is  convenient  for  you."  And 
Fox  smiled  cheerfully  again. 

The  professor  turned  once  more.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot, 
he  was  unshaven,  and  —  well,  tousled.  In  short,  the  pro 
fessor  looked  as  if  he  had  been  sitting  up  all  night.  He  had. 

"You  see,"  said  Sally  solemnly.  Her  father  was  out  of 
hearing,  as  may  be  supposed. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

PROFESSOR  LADUE  had  had  a  relapse.  There  was  no 
doubt  about  it.  It  was  rather  serious,  too,  as  relapses 
are  apt  to  be;  but  what  could  be  expected?  He  had 
been  good  for  a  long  time,  a  very  long  time  for  him.  It  was 
even  an  unreasonably  long  time  for  him,  as  had  occurred 
to  him,  you  will  remember,  in  the  course  of  his  conversa 
tion  with  Sally,  and  nobody  had  any  right  to  expect  more. 
What  Mrs.  Ladue  and  her'daughter  Sally  thought  they  ex 
pected  was  really  what  they  hoped.  They  did  not  expect 
it,  although  they  thought  that  they  did;  and  the  proof  is 
that,  when  the  first  relapse  happened,  they  were  not  sur 
prised.  They  were  deeply  discouraged.  The  future  looked 
pretty  black  to  Sally  as  she  swung  there  on  the  gate.  It 
looked  blacker  yet  when  the  professor  did  it  twice  again  in 
one  month.  That  was  in  March.  But  the  worst  was  to  come. 
It  was  lucky  that  Sally  did  not  know  it.  It  is  always  lucky 
that  we  do  not  know,  at  one  blow,  all  that  is  to  happen  to  us. 
Our  courage  might  not  survive  that  blow.  Instead,  it  has  a 
chance  to  grow  with  what  it  feeds  upon. 

So  Sally  went  her  daily  round  as  cheerfully  as  she  could. 
That  was  not  any  too  cheerfully,  and  her  unexpected 
chuckles  became  as  rare  as  roses  in  December.  Even  her 
smiles  seemed  to  be  reserved  for  her  mother  and  to  be  tender 
rather  than  merry.  She  watched  the  progress  of  her  mother's 
disease,  whatever  it  was,  with  solicitude  and  anxiety, 
although  she  tried  desperately  hard  not  to  show  her  mother 
how  anxious  she  was. 

Mrs.  Ladue's  progress  was  very  slow;  imperceptible,  from 
day  to  day,  and  she  had  her  ups  and  downs.  It  was  only 
when  she  could  look  back  for  a  month  or  more  that  Sally 
was  able  to  say  to  herself,  with  any  certainty,  that  her 


CONCERNING  SALLY  59 

mother  was  worse  —  that  the  downs  had  it.  But  always, 
when  Sally  could  look  back  and  compare,  she  had  to  confess 
to  herself  that  that  was  so.  The  headaches  were  no  more 
frequent  nor  did  they  seem  to  be  harder  to  bear;  but  her 
mother  seemed  —  it  was  a  struggle  for  Sally  to  have  to 
acknowledge  it,  even  to  herself  —  her  mother  seemed  to  be 
growing  stupid.  Her  intelligence  seemed  to  be  diminishing. 
What  was  Fox  thinking  of,  to  let  that  happen? 

When  this  question  presented  itself,  Sally  was  again 
swinging  moodily  upon  the  gate,  regarding  the  muddy  road 
that  stretched  out  before  her.  Charlie  was  playing  some 
where  behind  her,  equipped  with  rubber  boots  and  a  heavy 
coat.  It  is  to  be  feared  that  Sally  had  forgotten  Charlie.  It 
was  not  her  habit  to  forget  Charlie.  And  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  she  was  forgetting  that  the  last  day  of  March  had  come 
and  that  it  was  warm  and  springlike,  and  that  there  were  a 
number  of  birds  about.  It  was  not  her  habit  to  forget  any 
of  those  things  either,  especially  the  birds.  There  was  a 
flash  of  blue  under  a  tree  near  by  and,  a  few  seconds  later, 
a  clear  song  rang  out.  Charlie  stopped  his  play  and  looked, 
but  Sally  did  not  see  the  blue  wings  nor  the  ruddy  breast 
nor  did  she  seem  to  hear  the  song. 

That  question  had  brought  her  up  short.  She  stopped  her 
rhythmic  swinging  to  and  fro. 

"I'll  ask  him,"  she  said.   Her  faith  in  Fox  was  absolute. 

She  opened  the  gate  quickly,  and  started  to  run. 

There  was  a  roar  from  Charlie.  "Sally !  Where  you  goin' ? 
Wait  for  me !  I  want  to  go,  too.  I  'm  awful  hot.  Can't  I  take 
off  my  coat?  An'  these  boots  are  hot.  I  want  to  take  'em 
off." 

Sally  sighed  and  waited.  "I'm  afraid  I  forgot  you, 
Charlie.  Take  off  your  coat,  if  you're  too  hot,  and  leave  it 
by  the  gate." 

Charlie  had  the  overcoat  off  and  he  dropped  it  by  the  side 
of  the  footpath. 

"Not  there,  Charlie,"  Sally  said  impatiently.  "Inside 
the  gate.  We  don't  leave  overcoats  by  the  side  of  the  road." 


60  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"You  didn't  say  inside,"  Charlie  returned  sulkily.  "I 
left  it  where  you  said."  He  opened  the  gate  and  cast  the 
offending  garment  inside.  "And  these  boots  —  can  I  take 
'em  off?" 

"No,"  said  Sally  sharply,  "of  course  not.  If  your  feet 
are  hot  they'll  have  to  stay  hot.  You  can't  go  in  your  stock 
ing  feet  in  March." 

"I  don't  see  why  not,"  grumbled  Charlie.  "I  could  take 
my  stockings  off,  too." 

Sally  made  no  reply  to  this  protest.  She  took  his  hand  in 
hers.  "Now,  run,  Charlie.  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

So  Charlie  ran  as  well  as  a  small  boy  can  run  in  rubber 
boots  and  along  a  path  that  is  just  muddy  enough  to  be 
exceedingly  slippery.  When  they  came  to  the  corner  that 
they  had  to  turn  to  go  to  Fox's,  he  was  almost  crying  and 
Sally  was  dragging  him.  They  turned  the  corner  quickly 
and  almost  ran  into  Henrietta. 

"Oh!"  cried  Henrietta,  startled.   "Why,  Sally!" 

Charlie  laughed.  "Why  didn't  you  go  faster,  Sally? 
Then  we  might  have  run  into  her  —  plump." 

He  laughed  again,  but  got  no  attention  from  Sally. 

"Where's  Fox?"  she  asked. 

"He  went  into  town  this  morning,"  Henrietta  answered. 
" He  told  me  to  tell  you  to  cheer  up.  I  don't  know  what  it's 
about,  but  probably  you  do.  I  was  just  on  my  way  to  tell 
you.  Come  on.  Let's  go  back  to  your  house." 

Sally  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  Fox  had  not  forgotten,  after 
all.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  wait;  but  Sally  was 
rather  tired  of  waiting. 

"Well,  Henrietta,"  she  said,  "then  we  will.  But  I  want 
to  see  Fox  as  soon  as  ever  I  can." 

Fox  at  that  moment  was  sitting  in  the  private  office  of  a 
physician  —  a  specialist  in  headaches  —  and  was  just 
finishing  his  story.  He  had  mentioned  no  names  and  it  was 
hardly  conceivable  that  he  was  talking  about  himself.  Fox 
did  not  look  like  a  person  who  was  troubled  with  any  kind 
of  aches. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  61 

That  seemed  to  be  the  opinion  of  the  doctor,  at  any  rate. 
It  would  have  been  your  opinion  or  mine. 

"  I  take  it  that  you  are  not  the  patient,"  he  said,  smiling. 

That  doctor  was  not  the  type  of  the  grasping  specialist; 
he  did  not  seem  to  be  the  kind  of  man  who  would  charge 
as  much  as  a  patient  would  be  likely  to  be  able  to  pay  —  all 
that  the  traffic  would  bear.  But  who  is,  when  you  come  to 
know  them?  Probably  the  doctors  of  that  type,  in  any 
large  city,  could  be  counted  on  the  fingers  of  one  hand.  I 
know  of  one  conspicuous  example,  and  one  only,  and  he  is 
dead  now.  But  he  squeezed  out  large  fees  while  he  lived, 
and  became  very  rich ;  and  he  was  so  busy  with  his  squeezing 
that  he  had  no  time  to  enjoy  his  gains  —  I  had  almost  said 
his  ill-gotten  gains.  But  that  is  by  the  way. 

This  doctor  of  Fox's  —  we  will  call  him  Doctor  Galen, 
for  the  sake  of  a  name  —  this  Doctor  Galen  was  a  kindly 
man,  who  had  sat  leaning  one  elbow  on  the  table  and  looking 
out  at  Fox  under  a  shading  hand  and  half  smiling.  That 
half  smile  invited  confidence,  and,  backed  by  the  pleasant 
eyes,  it  usually  got  it.  Whether  that  was  the  sole  reason 
for  its  being  is  beside  the  question ;  but  probably  it  was  not. 

In  response  to  the  doctor's  remark,  Fox  smiled,  too,  and 
shook  his  head. 

"Am  I  to  see  this  patient  of  yours?"  asked  Doctor 
Galen  casually. 

Fox  was  distinctly  embarrassed.  "Is  it  absolutely  neces 
sary,  Doctor?"  he  asked,  in  return.  "It  is  difficult  to 
arrange  that  —  without  a  complete  change  of  base,"  he 
added.  "It  might  be  done,  I  suppose,  but  I  don't  see  how, 
at  this  minute." 

"The  only  reason  that  it  might  be  necessary,"  said  the 
doctor,  speaking  slowly,  "is  that  you  may  have  neglected 
some  symptom  that  is  of  importance,  while  seeming  to  you 
to  be  of  no  consequence  whatever.  It  is  always  desirable  to 
see  a  patient.  I  have  to  take  into  account,  for  example,  the 
whole  life  history,  which  may  be  of  importance  —  and  it 
may  not." 


62  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Fox  made  no  answer  to  this,  but  he  looked  troubled  and 
he  drummed  with  his  fingers  upon  his  knee. 

"Can't  we  assume  the  patient  to  be  —  merely  for  the 
sake  of  fixing  our  ideas  — "  Doctor  Galen  continued,  looking 
away  and  searching  for  his  example,  "well  —  er  —  Professor 
Ladue?  Or,  no,  he  won't  do,  for  I  saw  him  a  few  days  ago, 
in  quite  his  usual  health.  Quite  as  usual." 

"You  know  Professor  Ladue,  then,  Doctor?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know  him,"  the  doctor  replied  dryly.  "Well, 
as  I  said,  he  won't  do.  Let  us  suppose  that  this  case  were 
that  of  —  er  —  Mrs.  Ladue."  The  doctor  looked  at  Fox 
and  smiled  his  pleasant  smile.  "She  will  answer  our  purpose 
as  well  as  another." 

"Do  you  know  Mrs.  Ladue,  too?" 

"  No,"  said  Doctor  Galen.  "  No,  I  have  not  that  pleasure. 
But  I  know  her  husband.  That,"  he  added,  "may  be  of 
more  importance,  in  the  case  we  have  assumed  —  with  the 
symptoms  as  you  have  related  them." 

Fox  smiled  very  slightly.  "Well,  suppose  that  it  were 
Mrs.  Ladue,  then,  —  as  an  instance.  Assuming  that  I  have 
given  all  the  symptoms,  what  should  you  say  was  the  matter 
with  her?" 

Doctor  Galen  did  not  answer  for  some  minutes.  "Well," 
he  said  at  last,  "assuming  that  you  have  given  all  the 
symptoms  correctly  —  but  you  can't  have  given  them  all. 
I  have  no  means  of  knowing  whether  there  is  any  tendency 
to  hardening  of  the  walls  of  the  arteries.  How  old  is  she?" 
he  asked  suddenly. 

Fox  was  startled.  "I  'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  he  answered. 
"Say  that  she  is  thirty-odd  —  not  over  thirty-five." 

"That  is  not  likely,  then,"  the  doctor  resumed,  "although 
it  is  possible.  I  should  have  to  see  her  to  be  sure  of  my 
ground.  But,  assuming  that  there  are  no  complications,  — 
no  complications,  —  there  is  probably  a  very  slight  lesion 
in  the  brain.  Or,  it  may  be  that  the  walls  of  the  arteries  in 
this  neighborhood"  —  the  doctor  tapped  his  head  —  "are 
very  thin  and  there  is  a  gradual  seepage  of  blood  through 


CONCERNING  SALLY  63 

them.  To  tell  the  truth,  Mr.  Sanderson,  we  can't  know  very 
exactly  what  is  happening  until  skulls  are  made  of  plate 
glass.  But  the  remedy  is  the  same,  in  this  case,  whatever  is 
happening,  exactly." 

"What  is  the  treatment?" 

"Oh,"  said  Doctor  Galen,  apparently  in  surprise,  "there 
is  no  treatment.  In  the  hypothetical  case  which  we  have 
assumed,  I  should  prescribe  rest  —  absolute  rest,  physical 
and  mental.  We  must  give  those  arteries  a  chance,  you 
know;  a  chance  to  build  up  and  grow  strong  again.  There 
is  the  clot  to  be  absorbed,  too.  It  is  likely  to  be  very  slight. 
It  may  be  completely  absorbed  in  a  short  time.  Given  time 
enough,  I  should  expect  a  complete  recovery." 

"How  much  time?"  Fox  asked. 

"That  depends  upon  how  far  she  has  progressed  and  upon 
how  complete  a  mental  rest  she  can  get.  It  might  be  any 
time,  from  a  few  weeks  to  a  few  years." 

Fox  hesitated  a  little.  "Then,  I  suppose,  any  —  er  — 
anxiety  might  interfere?" 

"Any  mental  disturbance,"  Doctor  Galen  replied  decid 
edly,  "would  most  certainly  retard  her  recovery.  It  might 
even  prevent  it  altogether.  Why,  she  ought  not  to  think. 
I  hope  she  has  not  got  so  far  that  she  is  unable  to  think?" 

"No,  not  yet,"  Fox  sighed  and  rose.  "It's  not  so  simple 
as  you  might  suppose.  But  I'm  grateful  to  you,  Doctor. 
I  '11  see  what  can  be  done  and  I  may  call  upon  you  again." 
He  put  his  hand  to  his  pocket.  "Shall  I  pay  you  now?" 

Doctor  Galen  smiled  as  he  checked  Fox's  motion.  "Had 
n't  you  better  wait  until  you  get  my  bill?  Yes,  wait  if  you 
please." 

That  smile  of  Doctor  Galen's  seemed  to  envelop  Fox  in 
an  atmosphere  of  kindliness.  "You'll  send  one,  Doctor?" 
he  asked  doubtfully. 

"How  do  you  suppose,  sir,"  said  the  doctor,  smiling  more 
than  ever,  —  he  seemed  really  amused,  that  doctor,  —  "how 
do  you  suppose,  sir,  that  I  should  pay  my  grocer,  otherwise? 
You  have  put  yourself  into  the  clutches  of  a  specialist,  Mr. 


64  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Sanderson.  We  are  terrible  fellows.  You  are  lucky  to  escape 
with  your  life." 

"Well,"  Fox  replied,  laughing,  "I  thank  you  again,  Doc 
tor,  at  any  rate;  and  for  letting  me  escape  with  my  life." 

The  doctor  let  him  out  by  a  door  that  did  not  open  into 
the  outer  office. 

"Let  me  know  how  you  come  on  with  your  schemes," 
the  doctor  said.  "I  am  really  interested.  And,  if  you  find 
it  possible  to  give  me  a  half-hour  with  your  patient,  I  hope 
you  will  do  so.  It  will  be  much  better.  Good-bye,  Mr. 
Sanderson." 

"I  will,"  said  Fox.   "Good-bye,  Doctor." 

The  doctor  shut  the  door  and  touched  a  button  on  his 
desk.  He  was  still  smiling.  A  nurse  appeared  noiselessly. 

"A  nice  boy,  that,  Miss  Mather,  and  a  deserving  case," 
he  commented.  "  I  should  be  glad  to  be  able  to  believe  that 
all  my  patients  were  as  deserving.  But  I  should  n't  make 
much,"  he  added. 

Miss  Mather  smiled,  but  made  no  other  reply.  The  doctor 
was  looking  over  a  little  pile  of  cards.  He  took  up  the  card 
from  the  top  of  the  pile. 

"Mrs.  Van  Hoofe,  Miss  Mather." 

The  nurse  disappeared  as  noiselessly  as  she  had  come; 
and  the  doctor  proceeded  to  smooth  out  his  smile  and  to 
assume  a  properly  sympathetic  expression.  Mrs.  Van  Hoofe 
would,  perhaps,  help  him  with  his  grocer's  bills. 


CHAPTER   IX 

Fox  was  not  immediately  able  to  compass  the  end  that 
was  so  much  to  be  desired,  but  he  did  it,  at  last,  not 
without  misgivings.  If  Professor  Ladue  had  known, 
what  would  he  have  thought  —  and  said  —  about  such  inter 
ference  with  his  domestic  affairs?  There  were  misgivings 
on  Mrs.  Ladue's  part,  too,  and  Fox  had  to  overcome  those. 
She  was  in  no  condition  to  combat  Fox's  wish,  poor  lady! 
—  especially  as  it  was  her  own  wish,  so  far  as  she  had  any 
wish  in  the  matter;  and  she  knew  that  Sally  had  her  heart 
set  upon  it.  This  is  the  way  it  happened. 

Sally  had  been  regular  in  her  attendance  at  the  dancing- 
class,  all  winter,  and  she  had  applied  herself  conscientiously 
to  learn  what  she  went  to  learn,  with  more  or  less  success. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  she  learned  the  steps,  but  there  is  no 
less  doubt  that  she  failed  to  get  the  Spirit  of  Dancing.  In 
deed,  —  I  speak  with  hesitation,  —  the  Spirit  of  Dancing  is 
born,  not  made.  And  how  should  Sally  get  it  if  she  did  not 
have  it  already?  How  should  she  get  it  if  she  did  have 
it  already,  for  that  matter?  It  is  not  a  thing  that  can 
be  bought;  it  resembles  happiness  in  that  respect.  And, 
although  one  may  buy  a  very  fair  kind  of  an  imitation  of 
either,  the  real  thing  comes  from  within.  Henrietta  had  had 
the  Spirit  of  Dancing  born  in  her;  in  regard  to  Sally  there  is 
some  doubt. 

So,  if  Sally 's  success  was  not  glittering,  it  was  better  than 
Henrietta  had  feared  it  would  be,  and  she  breathed  a  sigh 
of  relief  at  the  close  of  the  last  day.  Sally  breathed  a  sigh  of 
relief,  too.  She  was  unaffectedly  glad  that  it  was  over. 
Mrs.  Ladue,  then  experiencing  one  of  her  ups,  planned  a 
party  for  Sally  and  invited  the  whole  dancing-class  to  it. 
It  was  to  be  a  birthday  party  and  was  to  be  on  the  nineteenth 


66  CONCERNING  SALLY 

of  April,  when  Sally  would  have  completed  her  eleventh 
year.  Sally  had  always  been  glad  that  her  birthday  hap 
pened  to  come  on  the  nineteenth  of  April,  for  it  was  a  great 
help  in  remembering  Leading  Dates  in  American  History  — 
or  one  of  them,  at  least. 

They  neglected  to  apprise  the  professor  of  the  plan,  no 
doubt  through  forgetfulness.  For,  how  could  he  fail  to  be 
pleased  that  his  daughter  was  to  have  a  birthday  party? 
He  did  not  find  it  out  until  the  seventeenth,  two  days  before 
the  event,  and  then  only  through  the  inadvertence  of  the 
caterer,  who  asked  him  some  question  about  it.  The 
caterer  was  a  new  man.  He  had  been  employed  by  Mr. 
Sanderson.  Upon  hearing  this  announcement  and  without 
giving  the  man  any  reply  to  his  questions,  Professor  Ladue 
rushed  off  to  town.  He  did  not  even  leave  word,  at  home, 
that  Mrs.  Ladue  must  not  be  alarmed  if  he  failed  to  make 
his  train.  Fox  happened  to  see  him  walking  to  and  fro  on 
the  station  platform,  evidently  fuming,  and  to  guess  where 
he  was  going  and  why. 

We  may  be  very  sure  that  Fox  did  not  tell  Mrs.  Ladue, 
but  she  found  it  out  the  next  morning  and  immediately 
proceeded  to  have  a  down.  The  up  having  had  its  turn,  the 
down  was  due,  of  course,  but  it  was  a  very  bad  down.  Fox 
telephoned  for  Doctor  Galen. 

Doctor  Galen  came  out  that  afternoon.  Sally  had  not 
been  told,  but  she  knew,  somehow,  and  she  was  waiting  for 
him  by  the  gate. 

"Doctor,"  she  said,  "will  you  let  me  get  you  anything 
that  you  want  and  —  and  wait  on  mother?  Will  you?" 

The  doctor  smiled  down  at  her.  "Why,  my  dear  little 
girl — "  he  began,  looking  into  the  earnest  gray  eyes.  He 
did  not  finish  as  he  had  intended.  "I  thank  you,"  he  said. 
"If  I  need  anything,  you  shall  get  it  for  me.  And  you  shall 
wait  upon  your  mother  to  your  heart's  content.  But  I  can't 
tell  how  much  waiting  upon  she  will  need  until  I  have  seen 
her." 

"Thank  you!"  Sally  cried  softly.    "I'm  glad.    I'll  take 


CONCERNING  SALLY  67 

you  to  mother."  They  started  towards  the  house  together. 
"Oh,  I  forgot,"  she  added,  turning  toward  him.  "I'm 
Sally  Ladue." 

The  doctor  smiled  down  at  her  once  more.  "I  gathered 
as  much,"  he  replied,  "putting  this  and  that  together.  I 
guess  that  your  mother  and  your  father  are  proud  of  their 
little  girl." 

"I  don't  think  that  father  is,"  Sally  returned  soberly. 

The  doctor's  eyes  twinkled.  "Why,  that  would  be  very 
strange.  By  the  way,  where  is  your  father?  In  town,  at  the 
college?" 

Sally  flushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  "I  think  he  is  in 
town,"  she  answered,  looking  carefully  straight  before  her. 

"Of  course,  he  must  have  classes."  The  doctor  had  noted 
that  fiery  flush  and  had  drawn  his  inference.  "One  would 
think,"  he  continued,  more  to  himself  than  to  Sally,  "that 
—  er  —  one  would  think  — "  It  was  none  of  his  business, 
he  reflected,  and  he  could  not  see,  for  the  life  of  him,  how  — 
"Which  is  your  mother's  room,  Sally?" 

They  were  just  entering  the  house  and  the  doctor  was 
pulling  off  his  gloves. 

"Oh,  I'll  take  you  up." 

Doctor  Galen  came  out  after  about  half  an  hour.  "Now, 
Sally,"  he  said  cheerfully,  "we'll  have  her  all  right  again, 
in  time.  It  may  take  quite  a  long  time,  so  don't  you  get 
impatient  if  it  seems  slow,  will  you,  Sally?" 

"I'll  try  not  to."  Her  lip  quivered  and  she  began  to 
sob. 

"  I  'm  c — crying  bee — cause  I  'm  g — glad."  Then  her  sobs 
stopped  suddenly  and  she  looked  up  at  the  doctor;  but  the 
tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  "Mother  can't  hear  me?" 

"No,  you  blessed  child.  You  come  with  me,  Sally,  and 
cry  as  much  as  you  like.  It'll  do  you  good.  And  I'll  stay 
until  you  get  through." 

So  it  happened  that  Fox  found  them  behind  a  big  tree, 
out  of  sight  from  the  house,  Sally  contentedly  crying  into 
the  doctor's  coat.  Henrietta  had  gone  on. 


68  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"She's  all  right,  Mr.  Sanderson.  It  has  done  her  good  to 
cry.  I  think  she's  about  through,  now." 

Sally  stopped  crying  and  smiled  at  them  both.  "I'm  so 
glad,  Fox,"  she  said. 

Fox  looked  inquiringly  at  the  doctor.  "Your  opinion, 
then,  is  that  she  will  get  well?" 

"Yes,  if  there  are  no  complications.  I  should  n't  expect 
any." 

Sally,  who  had  been  waiting,  apparently,  to  hear  the 
doctor  say  this  once  more,  murmured  something  about  her 
mother  and  started  for  the  house,  running.  She  overtook 
Henrietta. 

"Sally,"  continued  the  doctor,  "seems  to  be  a  dear 
child—" 

"She  is." 

"And  her  father  seems  to  be  —  well,  it  isn't  necessary 
for  us  to  say  what." 

Fox  laughed. 

"There  is  only  one  thing  —  only  one  which  looms  up 
plainly.  You  and  I  have  got  to  think  of  some  way  to  get 
Mrs.  Ladue  away  from  her  present  surroundings.  It  would 
answer  the  purpose  quite  as  well  —  perhaps  better,"  the 
doctor  added  thoughtfully,  —  "if  her  husband  could  be 
removed  from  the  environment.  I  am  speaking  rather 
plainly." 

Fox  nodded.  "I  understand,"  he  said.  "It  is  not  im 
possible  that  Providence  and  Professor  Ladue,  working 
together,  may  accomplish  that.  I  don't  know  how,"  he 
admitted,  seeing  the  question  in  the  doctor's  eyes,  "but  I 
think  there  is  going  to  be  an  explosion  in  that  college,  some 
day,  soon.  Professor  Ladue  — " 

"Pig!"  murmured  Doctor  Galen,  under  his  breath. 

"Had  better  look  out,"  Fox  finished.  "By  the  way, 
Doctor,  shall  we  have  the  party  that  we  had  planned  for 
to-morrow  —  Sally's  birthday  —  or  had  we  better  call  it 
off?" 

"If  you  can  keep  them  out  of  the  house,"  answered  the 


CONCERNING  SALLY  69 

doctor  slowly,  "and  if  they  don't  make  too  much  noise, 
I  see  no  objection  to  it.  Mrs.  Ladue  will  probably  sleep 
through  it.  I  have  left  a  mild  sleeping-potion  —  I  want  to 
keep  her  dozing,  at  any  rate,  for  some  days.  Arrangements 
all  made,  I  suppose?" 

"They  can  be  unmade  easily  enough." 

"  No,  no.  It  is  n't  worth  while.  Let  Sally  have  her  party. 
I'll  come  to  it,  myself.  You  tell  her  so,  will  you,  Mr. 
Sanderson?" 

So  Sally  had  her  party.  The  knowledge  that  she  had  it 
was  some  comfort  to  Mrs.  Ladue,  who,  in  her  comfortable, 
half-asleep  condition,  was  dimly  conscious  —  and  glad  — 
that  her  illness  had  made  no  difference  in  the  plans  for 
Sally.  And  Doctor  Galen  had  come;  ostensibly  to  the  party. 
To  be  sure,  he  spent  more  than  half  the  time  with  Mrs. 
Ladue,  mounting  the  stairs  silently,  once  in  a  while.  Then, 
if  she  was  sleeping,  he  would  stand  and  watch  her,  observing 
every  movement,  voluntary  and  involuntary.  They  all 
meant  something  to  him ;  most  of  them  told  him  something. 
If  she  was  not  sleeping,  she  would  open  her  eyes  and  smile 
vaguely,  being  still  in  that  comfortable,  dozing  state  when 
nothing  seems  to  matter  much.  Then  the  doctor  would 
enjoin  silence  by  raising  his  hand,  and  she  would  smile  again 
and  close  her  eyes  while  he  took  a  turn  about  the  room, 
quietly,  but  not  so  quietly  as  to  make  his  patient  nervous. 

It  was  fortunate  that  the  day  was  pleasant  and  warm, 
for  that  made  it  possible  to  spread  the  table  at  some  dis 
tance  from  the  house,  where  the  noise  would  not  disturb 
Mrs.  Ladue.  Doctor  Galen  leaned  against  a  tree  and  looked 
on  at  the  happy  crew.  When  they  seemed  to  be  about 
through  their  eating  and  talking,  he  beckoned  to  Sally, 
who  came  to  him  at  once. 

"I  must  go  now,  Sally,"  he  said.  "Your  guests  will  be 
going  pretty  soon,  I  suppose.  You  won't  let  them  make  too 
much  noise  near  the  house?" 

"Why,"  Sally  asked,  startled,  "is  mother—" 

"Your  mother  is  doing  just  what  I  want  her  to  do,"  the 


70  CONCERNING  SALLY 

doctor  replied,  interrupting  her.  "She  is  doing  very  well, 
indeed.  It's  only  a  precaution,  my  dear  little  girl.  I  don't 
want  you  to  worry,  Sally.  I'll  look  out  for  your  mother. 
You  need  n't  do  anything  but  follow  the  directions  I  gave 
you.  You  can  do  that  easily.  And  don't  worry,  Sally, 
whatever  happens." 

The  quick  tears  had  rushed  to  Sally's  eyes  as  Doctor 
Galen  spoke.  "Oh,  yes,  indeed,  I  can,"  she  said,  "and  I 
won't."  This  speech  was  not  as  clear  as  it  might  have  been, 
and  Sally  realized  it.  "Oh,  I  mean  — " 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  the  doctor  returned,  patting 
her  shoulder.  "You're  a  good  girl,  Sally.  Now,  I  must 

go." 

When  the  doctor  went  out  at  the  gate,  a  few  minutes 
later,  he  was  smiling.  I  don't  know  what  he  was  smiling  at, 
but  it  may  have  been  at  the  recollection  of  a  kiss  which  Sally 
had  just  bestowed  upon  him.  It  had  taken  him  somewhat 
by  surprise.  It  had  been  almost  as  much  of  a  surprise  to 
Sally. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  himself,  "that  was  pretty  good  pay, 
considering.  But  it's  just  as  well  that  the  Mrs.  Van  Hoofes 
don't  — Hello!" 

For  there,  before  him,  was  Professor  Ladue,  walking 
rapidly,  his  eyes  red  and  bloodshot,  and  looking  generally 
tousled.  The  doctor  glanced  at  him,  took  in  these  details, 
and  decided  quickly  that  it  would  be  wiser  not  to  speak. 
Accordingly,  he  passed  the  professor  with  no  more  than  a 
bow.  The  professor  glared  at  him,  bowed  shortly,  then  half 
turned. 

"A  lovely  spring  afternoon,  Doctor,"  he  said,  clearly 
and  coldly,  with  the  grimace  which  did  duty  for  a  smile. 
It  was  even  less  like  one  than  usual. 

"Charming!"  the  doctor  replied. 

"I  should  not  suppose,"  continued  the  professor,  almost 
snarling,  "that  a  man  of  your  engagements  would  have 
time  for  profitless  excursions  into  the  country." 

"Ah,"  the  doctor  returned,  smiling,   "but  it  was  not 


CONCERNING  SALLY  71 

profitless.  I  have  been  to  a  birthday  party;  the  party  of 
Miss  Sally  Ladue." 

What  reply  should  the  professor  have  made  to  that?  The 
professor,  at  least,  did  not  know.  He  turned,  again,  without 
a  word. 

Doctor  Galen  looked  after  him,  still  smiling.  Then  he, 
too,  turned  again.  "I  am  sorry  for  Sally,"  he  murmured, 
sighing.  "But  Sanderson  is  there.  He  must  get  her  out  of  it 
somehow." 

Sanderson  could  not  get  her  out  of  it,  as  it  happened.  The 
little  bunch  of  guests  was  halfway  down  the  walk,  laughing 
and  talking;  even  Sally  laughed  a  little,  although  she  did 
not  talk  much,  and  her  eye  was  alert  for  anybody  who 
might  come  in  at  the  gate.  She  hoped,  fervently,  that 
nobody  would  come  in  at  that  gate  until  the  girls  were  out 
of  it  and  safe  at  home.  Then  her  father  emerged  from  behind 
the  screen  of  bushes  along  the  wall  and  swung  the  gate  wide. 

Sally  gave  one  look.   "Oh,  Fox!"  she  cried. 

But  Fox  had  seen  and  had  run  forward. 

"Why  such  haste,  Mr.  Sanderson?"  sneered  the  pro 
fessor.  "Why  such  haste?  I  require  no  assistance." 

He  went  on  toward  the  house,  smiling  at  the  girls  as  he 
passed.  The  way  opened  quickly  before  that  smile  of  the 
professor's,  and  the  laughter  and  the  talk  died.  The  effect 
was  astonishing.  And  while  he  made  his  way  rapidly  on 
ward,  closely  followed  by  Fox,  the  group  of  Sally's  guests 
fairly  melted  away.  Once  outside  the  gate,  and  behind  the 
sheltering  screen,  they  ran. 

Sally  met  Fox  just  coming  out. 

"  It 's  all  right,  Sally,"  he  said.  "  I  persuaded  him  that  no 
noise  is  to  be  made.  I  persuaded  him." 

Sally  looked  at  Fox  in  wonder.    "It  did  n't  take  long." 

"  No,  it  didn't  take  long."  There  were  curious  firm  lines 
about  Fox's  mouth  and  his  voice  was  not  quite  steady. 
What  the  nature  of  the  persuasion  was,  which  was  so  effec 
tive  and  in  so  short  a  time,  Sally  was  not  likely  to  know. 


CHAPTER  X 

PROFESSOR  LADUE  was  rather  more  out  of  sorts  with  the 
world  in  general  than  was  usual  on  such  occasions. 
He  was  very  much  out  of  sorts  with  the  world  in 
general  and  with  three  of  its  inhabitants  in  particular :  with 
his  wife,  because  he  was  unable,  for  reasons  which  Fox  had 
made  clear  to  him  in  a  very  short  time,  to  wreak  his  ill 
temper  upon  her;  with  Fox,  because  he  had  succeeded  so 
well  in  making  those  reasons  clear;  and  with  Doctor  Galen, 
because  he  was  sure  that  the  doctor  was  attending  Mrs. 
Ladue.  Perhaps  I  should  have  said  that  the  professor  was 
out  of  sorts  with  four  persons  in  particular.  The  fourth 
person  was  Sally.  It  is  hard  to  see  why  he  should  have  been 
put  out  with  her,  who  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  it.  But 
she  was  good  and  dutiful  and  she  saw  through  him  clearly 
enough;  and  by  so  doing  she  kindled  in  him  a  feeling  of 
helpless  resentment. 

Of  course,  we  know  very  well  that  the  professor's  behavior 
was,  itself,  the  real  cause  of  his  feeling.  The  professor  knew 
that  well  enough.  He  was  not  dull-witted,  whatever  else 
he  was.  And,  because  he  knew  it,  he  raged;  and,  because 
there  was  no  outlet  for  his  rage,  he  raged  the  more,  coldly. 
Those  cold  rages  of  his  fairly  scared  Sally,  and  she  was  not 
easily  scared. 

His  rage  was  not  any  the  less  because  of  a  letter  that  Sally 
brought  up  to  him,  late  in  the  afternoon.  She  had  shrunk 
from  seeing  him,  but  the  letter  was  from  the  college,  bear 
ing  the  university  arms  in  the  corner,  and  it  was  for  special 
delivery.  So  Sally  thought  that  it  might  be  very  important. 
There  was  no  one  else  to  take  it  to  her  father,  so  she  took  it, 
and,  in  obedience  to  his  brief  command,  and  with  great  in 
ward  relief,  she  tucked  it  under  his  door. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  73 

The  letter  was  important,  although  not  in  the  way  that 
Sally  had  surmised.  It  was  from  the  provost  of  the  univer 
sity  of  which  the  professor's  college  was  a  part,  written  with 
the  venerable  provost's  own  hand  and  apparently  in  some 
haste.  It  stated  that  Mr.  Ladue  had,  that  very  day,  been 
seen,  by  the  provost  and  by  one  other  member  of  the  govern 
ing  body,  to  issue  from  a  well-known  gambling-house.  That 
fact,  coupled  with  the  rumors  which  had  persisted  for  a 
year  or  two  past,  made  it  imperative  that  Mr.  Ladue  should 
appear  before  the  Board  of  Governors,  at  their  next  meeting, 
to  clear  himself;  or,  if  he  preferred,  Mr.  Ladue  might  send 
in  his  resignation  at  once,  such  resignation  to  take  effect 
at  the  close  of  the  college  year. 

That  was  all.  One  would  think  that  it  was  quite  enough. 
Professor  Ladue  looked  up  from  his  brief  reading. 

"Ah ! "  he  cried  airily.  "The  honorable  provost  addresses 
me  as  Mr.  Ladue.  Mr.  Ladue.  And  so  I  am  to  appear 
before  the  Board  of  Governors  for  the  purpose  of  clearing 
myself —  of  what?  I  am  accused  of  coming  out  of  a  house. 
After  all,  it  is  a  very  quiet,  respectable-looking  house, 
indeed,  in  a  quiet  street,  rubbing  elbows  with  other  quiet, 
respectable-looking  houses.  Does  it  happen  that  the  honor 
able  provost  and  that  other  member  of  the  governing  body 
have  seen  more  than  the  outside  of  that  house?  Do  I 
appear  before  the  Board  of  Governors?  I  do  not.  And  do 
I  send  in  my  resignation  like  a  good  little  boy?  I  think  not. 
The  honorable  provost  is  a  fool.  I  will  write  him  a  letter 
and  tell  him  so." 

So  saying,  the  professor  —  we  may  call  him  the  professor 
for  almost  the  last  time  —  the  professor  went  to  his  desk 
and  wrote  the  letter.  He  was  in  just  the  mood  to  write  such 
a  letter  and  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  he  dealt  naturally 
in  caustics.  Consequently,  the  letter  was  an  excellent 
letter;  it  was  exactly  what  it  was  meant  to  be.  It  was  a 
model  of  its  kind.  There  is  little  doubt  that  it  was  a  poor 
kind  and  that  it  was  very  unwise  to  send  it.  Having  been 
written,  it  should  have  been  burned  —  utterly  destroyed. 


74  CONCERNING  SALLY 

It  would  have  served  its  purpose  better.  But  the  professor 
was  in  no  mood  to  do  what  was  merely  wise.  He  was  pleased 
with  the  letter,  proud  of  it.  He  was  so  pleased  with  it  that 
he  read  it  over  three  times.  Then  he  laughed  and  signed  it. 

"That  will,  perhaps,  make  them  sit  up.  It  would  give 
me  some  pleasure  to  be  present  when  he  reads  it."  The  pro 
fessor  gazed  out  into  the  great  tree,  musing  pleasantly. 
"No,  it  can't  be  done.  It  is  a  matter  of  regret  that  it 
cannot." 

He  sealed  the  letter  and  went  out,  at  once,  to  mail  it.  He 
was  quite  cheerful  as  he  took  his  hat  and  his  stick  from  the 
rack  in  the  hall;  so  cheerful  that  Charlie,  who  happened  to 
catch  sight  of  him,  was  encouraged  to  hail  him.  He  answered 
pleasantly,  even  buoyantly,  so  that  Sally  was  sure  that  she 
had  been  right  and  that  the  letter  which  she  had  carried  up 
had  been  important. 

The  cheerfulness  of  the  professor  was  spurious,  but,  such 
as  it  was,  it  lasted,  unimpaired,  until  the  letter  was  posted. 
The  mail  was  just  going  out,  and  the  postmaster,  obliging 
as  postmasters  invariably  are,  held  it  long  enough  to  slip 
in  the  letter  to  the  provost.  The  professor  saw  it  go;  then 
doubts  began  to  assail  him,  and  his  cheerfulness  ebbed. 
He  stood  irresolute  until  he  heard  the  train.  It  was  useless 
to  stand  irresolute  longer.  It  is  always  useless  to  stand 
irresolute  for  any  length  of  time  whatever.  The  professor 
knew  that  very  well.  With  a  quick  compression  of  the  lips, 
he  turned  homeward.  He  was  no  longer  cheerful. 

No  doubt  I  was  wrong  in  speaking  of  him  as  the  professor 
that  last  time.  He  was,  henceforth,  to  be  Mr.  Ladue.  His 
professorial  career  had  been  cut  off  by  that  letter  to  the 
provost  as  cleanly  and  as  suddenly  as  by  a  sharp  axe.  That 
would  be  true  of  any  college.  Mr.  Ladue  did  not  deceive 
himself  about  that.  There  was  a  need  of  adjustment  to  the 
new  conditions,  and  he  set  himself  the  task  of  thinking  out 
just  what  the  new  conditions  were.  He  was  so  busy  with  his 
thinking  that  he  nearly  ran  into  a  young  man.  The  young 
man  had  just  issued  from  Mr.  Ladue's  own  gate.  But  was 


CONCERNING  SALLY  75 

it  his  gate?  Mr.  Ladue  happened  to  have  got  to  that  very 
matter.  There  seemed  to  be  a  reasonable  doubt  of  it;  in 
deed,  as  he  progressed  farther  in  his  thinking-out  process 
and  his  recollection  emerged  from  the  fog  of  habit,  there 
seemed  to  be  no  doubt  that  it  was  not  his  gate  at  all  and  that 
he  had  been  allowed  to  think  of  it  as  his  and  to  call  it  his, 
purely  on  sufferance. 

For  he  remembered,  with  a  shock,  a  thoughtless  moment, 
a  moment  of  inadvertence,  —  a  moment  of  insanity,  —  in 
which  he  had  made  over  the  place^to  his  wife,  Sarah.  He 
had  got  into  the  habit  of  forgetting  all  about  it.  Now  it 
was  necessary  that  he  should  get  out  of  that  habit.  He  had 
never  regretted  that  act  more  keenly  than  at  that  moment. 
It  was  the  act  of  a  madman,  he  told  himself  impatiently. 

As  these  thoughts  passed  rapidly  through  his  mind,  the 
aforesaid  young  man  had  gone  on  his  way.  If  he  was  to 
speak,  he  must  speak  quickly. 

He  turned.  "Oh,  Fox,"  he  said  casually,  "I  am  afraid 
I  was  rather  abrupt  a  short  time  ago.  Pray  accept  my 
apologies." 

It  was  a  new  r61e  for  Mr.  Ladue.  It  cost  him  something 
to  assume  it,  but  it  was  necessary  to  his  purposes  that  he 
should.  This  was  one  of  the  new  conditions  which  must  be 
faced.  It  was  an  opportunity  which  must  be  seized  before 
it  ceased  to  be.  For  Fox  it  was  a  totally  new  experience  to 
receive  an  apology  from  a  man  like  Mr.  Ladue.  The  experi 
ence  was  so  new  that  he  blushed  with  embarrassment  and 
stammered. 

"Oh, — er  —  that's  all  right.  Certainly.  Don't  apolo 
gize."  He  managed  to  pull  himself  together,  knowing  that 
what  he  had  said  was  not  the  right  thing  at  all.  "And, 
Professor,"  he  added,  "shall  we  resume  our  studies  when 
Mrs.  Ladue  is  better?  —  when  she  will  not  be  disturbed?" 

Fox  did  not  know  as  much  about  Mr.  Ladue's  affairs  as 
we  know,  or  he  might  not  have  called  him  by  that  title. 
But  yet  he  might. 

"To  be  sure,"  answered  Mr.  Ladue,  apparently  in  sur- 


76  CONCERNING  SALLY 

prise;  "why  not?  Is  she  in  a  condition  to  be  disturbed  by 
such  little  matters?  I  had  rather  expected  to  see  her,  to 
talk  over  an  important  question."  If  Fox  chose  to  infer  that 
the  important  question  related  to  certain  delinquencies  of 
his  own,  why,  let  him  think  so. 

"I  am  afraid  that  will  be  impossible  for  some  time,"  Fox 
replied  firmly.  "Dr.  Galen  left  instructions  that  she  is, 
on  no  account,  to  be  disturbed.  She  is  not  to  be  compelled 
to  think.  It  seems  to  be  important.  His  instructions  were 
explicit  and  emphatic  on  that  point." 

"Ah,"  Mr.  Ladue  remarked  calmly.  "So  Dr.  Galen  is 
running  my  house." 

"Yes."  There  was  no  lack  of  firmness  in  Fox's  voice, 
although  he  was  not  flushing  now.  "Dr.  Galen  is  running 
your  house.  That  is  the  situation  exactly." 

"And  may  I  ask,"  Mr.  Ladue  inquired  coldly,  —  "may 
I  venture  to  ask  how  it  happens  that  a  specialist  —  one  of 
the  most  expensive  in  the  city  —  is  in  such  a  position  that 
he  can  assume  to  do  so?" 

"Certainly  you  may.  I  will  try  to  make  it  clear  that  it 
was  necessary,  but  it  will  not  alter  the  situation  if  I  fail. 
Immediately  after  your  leaving  for  town,  Mrs.  Ladue  had 
one  of  her  attacks.  It  seemed  to  Sally  —  and  to  me  — 
essential  that  she  should  have  expert  advice  at  once.  So  — 
in  your  absence  —  I  sent  for  Dr.  Galen.  I  am  very  glad  that 
I  did." 

"Do  you  know  what  his  price  will  be?" 

"I  do  not.  What  difference  does  it  make?  Mrs.  Ladue's 
life  may  depend  upon  her  having  the  best  advice  there  is 
to  be  had." 

Mr.  Ladue  did  not  answer  immediately.  He  could  not 
well  say  to  Fox  that  that  was  a  matter  of  less  importance  to 
himself  than  the  price  that  would  be  charged.  Besides,  he 
was  not  sure  that  it  mattered  to  him  what  Dr.  Galen 
charged.  He  had  no  intention  of  paying  it.  They  ought  to 
have  known  that  they  could  not  saddle  him  with  their  bills 
without  his  consent.  Further  than  that  — 


CONCERNING  SALLY  77 

"  It's  all  right,  of  course,  Fox,"  said  Mr.  Ladue  pleasantly, 
looking  up.  "I  did  n't  realize  that  Mrs.  Ladue 's  condition 
was  serious.  Thank  you.  Come  in  as  soon  as  you  think  it 
advisable  and  we  will  continue  our  studies.  Good-night." 

"Good-night."  Fox  turned  away  with  a  curious  mingling 
of  feeling  toward  Mr.  Ladue.  He  could  not  help  feeling 
grateful  to  him,  yet  he  did  not  trust  him.  What  next? 

That  was  precisely  the  question  Mr.  Ladue  was  asking 
himself  as  he  walked  slowly  toward  the  house.  What  next? 
It  was  most  unfortunate  that  he  could  not  see  his  wife,  most 
unfortunate.  If  he  could  have  the  chance  to  talk  to  his  wife, 
Sarah,  now,  he  thought  he  could  persuade  her.  Give  him 
but  five  minutes  and  he  was  sure  he  could  persuade  her. 
He  would  do  better  to  have  the  papers  ready.  He  wondered 
whether  he  dared;  and,  for  an  instant,  he  entertained  the 
idea  of  having  that  talk,  in  spite  of  Fox  and  of  Dr.  Galen. 
He  thought  upon  it. 

"No,"  he  said  to  himself,  "it  wouldn't  do,  under  the 
circumstances.  It  wouldn't  do.  We'll  have  to  give  that 
up." 

Mr.  Ladue  deserved  no  credit  for  deciding  to  give  that  up. 
It  is  to  be  feared  that  the  possibility  of  evil  consequences 
to  his  wife,  Sarah,  played  no  part  in  forcing  him  to  that 
decision.  The  important  thing  is  that  he  did  so  decide.  In 
the  short  time  that  remained  before  dinner,  he  walked  to 
and  fro  in  his  room,  thinking  hard.  He  could  do  that  very 
well  when  he  applied  himself  to  it.  At  dinner  he  was  unex 
pectedly  pleasant,  giving  Sally  a  sense  of  security  that  was 
not  at  all  justified  by  the  event.  In  that,  no  doubt,  he  was 
doing  just  what  he  intended. 

That  evening,  having  devoted  a  certain  brief  time  to 
thinking  to  some  purpose,  he  packed  his  bag  and  wrote  a 
short  note  to  his  wife.  It  is  immaterial  what  he  said  in  that 
note,  but  he  ended  it  with  these  words:  "So  you  may  keep 
your  place,  madam,  and  much  good  may  it  do  you.  In  fact, 
I  think  that  you  will  have  to  keep  it.  You  could  not  give  a 
good  deed  or  a  good  mortgage  without  my  signature."  It 


78  CONCERNING  SALLY 

seemed  an  entirely  uncalled-for  evidence  of  his  ill  humor. 
What  had  Mrs.  Ladue  done  to  deserve  it? 

In  the  morning  he  came  to  breakfast  as  usual,  and  again 
he  was  very  pleasant.  Indeed,  he  was  so  pleasant  that  the 
fact  excited  Sally's  suspicions.  He  was  not  usually  so  pleas 
ant  on  the  morning  after.  And  when  he  had  gone  to  his  cus 
tomary  train  —  carrying  a  bag,  Sally  noted  —  she  found 
his  note,  sealed,  and  addressed,  in  her  father's  well-known 
scrawling  hand,  to  her  mother.  She  took  possession  of  the 
note.  Of  only  one  thing  was  she  sure  and  that  was  that  no 
note  written  by  her  father  —  and  sealed  —  was  going  to 
be  delivered  to  her  mother;  at  least,  not  without  advice. 

Later  she  showed  the  note  to  Fox;  and  he,  being  as  un 
certain  what  ought  to  be  done  as  Sally  was,  showed  it  to 
Dr.  Galen.  They  three  decided,  much  against  their  will,  to 
see  what  Mr.  Ladue  had  said. 

"For,"  Dr.  Galen  observed,  "Mrs.  Ladue  is  not  in  condi 
tion  to  read  a  note  of  any  kind.  She  will  not  be  in  that 
condition  for  a  week,  at  least.  It  seems  to  me,  Sally,  that 
you  should  know  what  your  father  says,  especially  in  view 
of  the  circumstances.  I  advise  you  to  open  it." 

"You  do  it,"  said  Sally. 

So  the  doctor  did  it.  "Of  course,"  he  remarked,  as  he  slid 
the  blade  of  his  knife  under  the  flap,  "if,  on  glancing  at  it, 
I  see  that  it  is  improper  for  me  to  read,  I  shall  not  read  it. 
But  if,  as  I  fear — " 

He  was  reading  it.  "The  cur!"  he  muttered,  as  he  fin 
ished.  He  handed  it  to  Fox.  "You  read  it,  Mr.  Sanderson." 

Fox  read  it  and  chuckled.  "I  ought  not  to  laugh,"  he 
explained,  "but  it  is  so  —  so  futile.  Delivery  to  Mrs.  Ladue 
seems  out  of  the  question.  And,  Sally,"  he  went  on,  "you 
shall  see  this  if  you  want  to,  but  I  wish  that  you  would  not 
want  to.  Your  father  has  gone,  apparently." 

"Yes,"  said  Sally,  somewhat  puzzled,  "I  know  it;  to  the 
university?" 

"Not  to  the  university,  I  think.  He  seems  to  have  lit  out. 
He  says  something  about  getting  another  position  suited  to 


CONCERNING  SALLY  79 

him.  He  says  some  other  things  that  it  would  give  you  only 
pain  to  read." 

Sally's  face  expressed  a  curious  mingling  of  anxiety  and 
relief.  "  I  won't  read  it  if  you  don't  want  me  to,"  she  said. 
"But  —  but  what  —  how  shall  we  get  any  money?" 

"Don't  you  worry  about  that.  We'll  manage  to  raise  a 
few  cents  when  we  need  to." 

Fox  had  said  "we"  and  that  seemed  to  comfort  Sally. 
Fox  turned  to  the  doctor. 

"The  environment  has  taken  care  of  itself,"  he  remarked ; 
and  the  doctor  smiled. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IT  was  in  all  the  papers.  The  honorable  provost  seemed  to 
wish  that  the  fact  of  Professor  Ladue's  break  with  the 
authorities  of  the  university  should  be  known,  and  he 
graciously  allowed  himself  to  be  interviewed  on  the  subject 
once  a  week.  As  was  to  be  expected,  but  one  side  of  the 
question  was  presented  in  these  interviews,  but  that  may 
have  worked  no  injury  to  Mr.  Ladue,  who  received  unde 
served  credit  for  his  silence.  It  was  just  as  well.  In  none  of 
those  interviews  did  the  honorable  provost  give  out  the  letter 
that  Mr.  Ladue  had  written.  That  letter  contained  certain 
pointed  passages  which  the  press  should  not  get  hold  of, 
if  he  could  help  it.  Mr.  Ladue  had  some  reason  to  be  proud. 

Then  the  reporters  began  to  come  out  to  Mr.  Ladue's 
house,  in  the  hope  of  an  interview  with  him.  They  did 
manage  to  get  a  few  words  with  Sally,  but  the  words  were 
very  few  and  then  Fox  came  in.  So  it  came  about  that  Fox 
Sanderson  spent  most  of  his  time,  from  breakfast-time  until 
bedtime,  at  the  Ladues'.  Naturally,  Henrietta  was  there, 
too.  Sally  was  well  content  with  any  arrangement  which 
brought  them  both  there  all  the  time. 

Those  would  have  been  hard  times  with  the  Ladues  if  it 
had  not  been  for  Fox  Sanderson.  Mrs.  Ladue  owned  the 
place,  to  be  sure,  but  she  owned  very  little  else;  hardly  more 
than  enough  to  pay  the  taxes.  And  if  Mr.  Ladue  had  been 
a  hard  man  to  extract  money  from,  at  least  he  had  kept  the 
tradesmen  satisfied;  or,  if  not  satisfied,  they  were  never 
sufficiently  dissatisfied  to  refuse  to  supply  the  necessities. 
It  was  a  different  case  now,  and  Sally  wondered  a  good  deal 
how  they  contrived  to  get  along.  She  knew  that  Fox  was 
managing  their  affairs,  but  things  had  been  going  on  in  this 
way  for  a  long  time  before  she  got  to  the  point  of  wondering 


CONCERNING  SALLY  81 

whether  he  was  supplying  the  money.  She  reached  that 
point  at  last,  and  she  asked  Fox  about  it. 

She  had  waited  until  she  got  him  alone  and  was  sure  that 
they  would  not  be  interrupted. 

"Fox,"  she  asked  without  preamble,  "where  do  we  get 
our  money?" 

Fox  was  taken  by  surprise.  He  had  not  been  expecting 
any  question  of  the  kind.  He  found  himself  embarrassed 
and  hesitating. 

"Why,"  he  answered,  not  looking  at  her,  "why  —  our 
money?  Er  —  what  do  you  want  to  know  for?" 

Sally  was  regarding  him  steadily.  "Because,"  she  replied, 
"I  think  I  ought  to.  Where  do  we  get  it?" 

"Oh,  don't  you  care,  Sally,"  said  Fox  carelessly.  "We 
get  it  honestly." 

Sally's  earnest  regard  did  not  waver.  "Of  course  we  get 
it  honestly.  But  where?  I  think  you  ought  to  tell  me,  Fox. 
Do  you  give  it  to  us?" 

Sally,  bent  upon  the  one  purpose,  had  not  thought  of  sit 
ting  down.  She  stood  squarely  before  Fox,  her  fingers  inter 
locked  before  her,  and  gazed  up  into  his  face.  Fox  shifted 
his  weight  to  the  other  foot  as  she  asked  the  question.  Then 
he  laughed  a  little. 

"I  give  it  to  you!  What  an  idea!" 

"But  do  you?"  Sally  insisted.  "You  haven't  said  you 
don't." 

"Let's  sit  down,  Sally,"  said  Fox,  attempting  a  diversion. 
"Aren't  you  tired?" 

"No,  I 'm  not.  But  you  sit  down  if  you  want  to.  Excuse 
me  for  keeping  you  standing." 

Fox  found  a  chair  and  seated  himself  comfortably.  Sally 
again  faced  him,  still  standing. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  sit  down?"  asked  Fox,  seemingly 
surprised.  "Please  do.  I  can't  be  satisfied  to  sit,  with  you 
standing."  He  placed  a  chair  for  her. 

"All  right,"  Sally  moved  the  chair  around  so  that  she 
would  face  him,  and  sat  down. 


82  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"What  a  lovely  summer  day,  Sally!"  he  said.  "Is  n't  it, 
now?" 

Sally  laughed.  She  would  not  be  diverted.  "Yes,"  she 
said.  "But  you  have  n't  answered  my  question." 

"Well,"  asked  Fox,  sighing,  "what  is  the  question?" 
There  seemed  to  be  no  escape. 

"Where  do  we  get  our  money?  Do  you  give  it  to  us?" 

"But  that,"  he  remonstrated,  "makes  two  questions." 

The  quick  tears  rushed  into  Sally's  eyes.  "Oh,  Fox, 
won't  you  tell  me?" 

Fox  glanced  at  her  and  gave  in  at  once.  He  told  the  strict 
truth,  for  nothing  less  would  do,  for  Sally.  He  could  n't 
have  told  anything  else,  with  those  solemn,  appealing  gray 
eyes  looking  at  him. 

"I'll  tell  you,  Sally,"  he  said  quickly.  "Just  trust 
me." 

Sally  smiled.   It  was  like  a  burst  of  sunshine.   "I  do." 

"I  know  it,"  he  returned,  "and  I'm  proud  of  it.  Well,  I 
have  been  advancing  what  money  has  been  needed  for  the 
past  three  months.  You  can't  say  I  Ve  given  it  to  you.  I  'd 
rather  say  us,  Sally.  So  you  see,  you  can't  say  I  Ve  given  it 
to  us,  for  we  —  Henrietta  and  I  —  have  been  here  so  very 
much  that  we  ought  to  pay  something.  We  ought  to  con 
tribute.  I  don't  like  to  call  it  board,  but  — 

"Why  not?"  Sally  asked,  interrupting.  "Why  don't  you 
like  to  call  it  board?" 

"Well,"  Fox  answered,  rather  lamely,  "you  don't  take 
boarders,  you  know." 

"I  don't  see,"  said  Sally,  brightening  distinctly,  "I  can't 
see  why  we  don't  —  why  we  should  n't,  if  mother  's  well 
enough.  I've  been  thinking." 

"But  that's  just  it.  Your  mother  is  not  well  enough  for 
you  to  take  regular,  ordinary  boarders.  You  must  n't  think 
of  it." 

"Would  you  call  you  and  Henrietta  regular,  ordinary 
boarders?"  Sally  asked,  after  a  few  moments  of  silence. 

Fox  laughed.    "On  the  contrary,  we  are  most  irregular, 


CONCERNING  SALLY  83 

extraordinary  boarders.    But  why,  Sally?   Would  you  like 
to  have  — " 

"Oh,  yes,"  cried  Sally  at  once.  "I  should  like  it  very 
much.  But  I  don't  know  whether  you  would." 

"Yes,  I  should  like  it  very  much,  too.  But  there  have 
seemed  to  be  certain  reasons  why  it  was  n't  best  to  live 
here." 

"But  you  live  here  now,"  Sally  objected;  "all  but  sleep 
ing.  We've  got  rooms  enough." 

"  I  '11  think  it  over;  and,  if  I  think  we  can  come,  we  will." 

"  I  hope  you  will.  I  should  feel  comfortabler.  Because  I 
don't  see  how  we  can  ever  pay  you  back;  at  any  rate,  not 
for  a  long  time.  We  should  have  to  wait  until  I  'm  old  enough 
to  earn  money,  or  until  Charlie  is.  And  I'm  four  years 
older." 

:    Fox  smiled  at  the  idea  of  waiting  for  Charlie.   But  Sally 
went  on. 

"And  there's  another  thing.  There's  Doctor  Galen." 

"Oh,  so  the  doctor  's  the  other  thing.   I  '11  tell  him." 

"The  money  that  we  have  to  pay  him  is  the  other  thing." 
Sally  was  very  earnest.  "Will  it  be  much,  do  you  think?" 

"Sally,  don't  you  worry.  I  asked  the  doctor  just  that 
question  and  he  told  me  I  had  better  wait  until  he  sent  his 
bill.  He  has  n't  sent  it  yet." 

"Well  —  will  it  be  as  much  as. a  hundred  dollars?" 

"It  is  possible  that  it  may  be  as  much  as  that." 

"Oh,  will  it  be  more?"  Sally  was  distressed.  When  should 
she  be  able  to  save  —  even  to  earn  a  hundred  dollars.  "We 
can't  ever  pay  it,  Fox;  not  for  years  and  years." 

Again  Fox  told  her  not  to  worry.  She  did  not  seem  to  hear 
him.  She  was  following  her  thought. 

"And,  Fox,  if  you  have  to  pay  it,  we  shall  owe  you  an 
awful  lot  of  money.  Have  —  have  you  got  money  enough?  " 

Fox  Sanderson  did  not  have  an  "awful  lot"  of  money. 
That  very  question  had  been  giving  him  some  anxiety.  But 
he  would  not  let  Sally  suspect  it. 

"I  guess  I'll  be  able  to  manage,  Sally." 


84  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"  I  hope  so.  And  I  've  been  thinking,  Fox,  that  I  ought  to 
help." 

"Why,  Sally,  you  do  help.  Just  think  of  the  things  you 
do,  every  day,  helping  about  your  mother,  and  about  the 
house." 

"Yes,"  she  returned,  "but  I  mean  about  earning  money. 
Those  things  don't  earn  money.  Could  n't  I  learn  typewrit 
ing  and  go  into  somebody's  office?  Or  could  n't  I  teach? 
Do  you  have  to  know  a  lot  of  things,  to  teach,  Fox?" 

Fox  smiled.  "Some  teachers  that  I  have  known,"  he 
answered,  "haven't  known  such  an  awful  lot  of  things. 
But  if  you  really  want  to  teach,  Sally,  you  ought  to  be 
trained  for  it.  At  least,"  he  added,  more  to  himself  than  to 
Sally,  "that  is  the  popular  opinion." 

Again  Sally  was  distressed.  "Do  you  have  to  go  to  col 
lege,  Fox?" 

"Well,"  answered  Fox,  smiling,  "not  exactly,  but  some 
thing  of  the  sort.  There 's  a  normal  school  or  the  training 
school  for  teachers,  or  whatever  they  call  it." 

"Oh,  dear!"  Sally  wailed.  "Everything  takes  so  long! 
I  wanted  to  do  something  right  away.  Can't  you  think  of 
anything,  Fox?" 

"  Not  right  off  the  bat.  I  '11  see  what  thoughts  I  can  raise 
on  that  subject.  But  if  I  don't  think  of  anything,  would  you 
like  to  plan  to  be  a  teacher,  Sally?" 

"If  it  would  help  mother,  I  would.  If  that's  the  best 
thing  we  can  think  of.  I'd  do  anything  to  help  mother. 
I  'd  go  out  scrubbing  or  I  'd  sell  papers  or  —  or  anything." 

"Bless  your  heart!"  Fox  exclaimed  under  his  breath. 
"Bless  your  dear  heart,  Sally!  You  need  n't  go  out  scrub 
bing  or  washing  dishes  or  selling  papers  or  anything  of  the 
kind.  You  can  do  better  than  that.  And  your  mother  is 
likely  to  need  your  help  about  as  much  when  you  are  fitted 
for  teaching  as  she  does  now." 

"Is  —  isn't  mother  getting  better?"  asked  Sally,  hesi 
tating. 

"Yes,"  said  Fox,  "but  very  slowly;  very  slowly  indeed. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  85 

Doctor  Galen  thinks  it  will  be  some  years  before  she  is 
herself  again.  Think,  Sally,  how  much  better  it  will  be  for 
you  to  be  getting  ready.  Suppose  she  was  well  now.  What 
would  you  and  she  do?  How  would  the  conditions  be 
different?" 

Sally  murmured  something  about  taking  boarders. 

"Well,"  Fox  observed,  "I  never  have  taken  'em  and  so  I 
have  no  experience  with  that  end  of  it.  But  Henrietta  and 
I  have  been  boarding  for  a  good  many  years  now  —  ever 
since  mother  died  —  and  we  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  all 
kinds  of  boarders.  On  the  average,  they  seem  to  be  an  un 
mannerly  and  ungrateful  lot.  Don't  you  be  a  party  to  mak 
ing  'em  worse,  Sally.  Don't  you  do  it." 

Sally  laughed. 

"Besides,"  he  went  on,  "it's  pretty  apt  to  be  humiliat 
ing." 

"I  suppose  that's  something  unpleasant,"  Sally  said 
quietly,  "and,  of  course,  it  would  n't  be  pleasant.  I  should  n't 
expect  it  to  be." 

"I  don't  believe  there's  any  money  in  it." 

Sally  paused  a  moment  to  digest  that  phrase.  Then  she 
sighed. 

"  You  know  more  about  it  than  I  do.  I  '11  do  just  what  you 
say,  Fox." 

The  gate  clicked  and  they  both  looked  around. 

"Here  comes  Henrietta,"  said  Fox.  "Now  we'll  all  go 
out  in  the  shade  and  play.  But,  Sally,"  he  added  hastily, 
"have  you  got  any  rich  relatives?" 

"Rich  relatives!"  Sally  exclaimed.  "Not  that  I  know  of. 
Or,  wait.  There's  Miss  Hazen  —  Martha  Hazen.  She's 
a  cousin  of  father's,  but  I  don't  know  how  rich  she  is.  I  've 
never  seen  her." 

"Where  does  she  live?" 

"Up  in  Massachusetts,  somewhere.   I  think  she's  queer." 

"The  queerer  the  better.  Your  father's  cousin,  is  she? 
It  would  n't  be  strange.  Can  you  find  out  where  she  lives, 
Sally?" 


86  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Sally  thought  she  could.  "And,  Fox,"  she  reminded  him, 
—  she  was  afraid  he  might  forget,  —  "you  see  if  you  can't 
come  here  to  live.  Will  you,  Fox?" 

He  nodded.  Henrietta  was  at  the  piazza  steps.  "  I  '11  ask 
Doctor  Galen  about  it." 

"What '11  you  ask  Doctor  Galen  about,  Fox?"  inquired 
Henrietta.  "Are  you  and  Sally  talking  secrets?" 

"I'll  ask  the  doctor  what  should  be  done  with  a  very 
troublesome  little  sister,"  he  answered,  smiling  at  her. 

"You  might  get  rid  of  her  by  sending  her  off  to  boarding- 
school,"  Henrietta  remarked.  "Not  that  she  wants  to  go." 

"No  boarding-school  for  you  yet,  young  lady.  There  are 
one  hundred  reasons  why,  and  the  first  is  —  is  so  important 
that  the  ninety-nine  others  don't  matter." 

Fox  had  caught  himself  just  in  time.  He  had  intended 
to  say  that  he  did  n't  have  the  money.  Well,  he  had  n't; 
but  he  did  n't  mean  to  tell  Sally  so. 

"I  suppose  that  first  reason,"  said  Henrietta,  "is  that 
you  can't  spare  me." 

"Wrong.  That  is  the  second.  And  the  third  is  that  you 
are  too  young.  Never  mind  the  others.  We  are  going  out 
to  play  now,  Henrietta."  Sally  darted  into  the  house. 
"Where  are  you  going,  Sally?" 

"After  Charlie,"  she  called  softly.  "I'll  be  right  back. 
And  let's  be  sauruses!" 

"Sauruses  it  is,"  Fox  returned.  "I  say,  Henrietta,  can 
you  climb  trees  as  well  as  Sally?" 

"Well,  not  quite"  —  hesitating  —  "but  I 'm  learning." 

"You  live  in  a  cave  with  Charlie,"  he  said  decidedly. 


CHAPTER  XII 

To  tell  the  truth,  the  question  of  money  had  been 
troubling  Fox  somewhat,  for  he  did  not  have  an 
"awful  lot,"  to  use  Sally's  words.  There  was  enough 
for  him  and  Henrietta  to  live  upon  in  great  comfort;  but 
when  the  amount  which  will  support  two  people  in  comfort 
has  to  take  care  of  five,  it  needs  to  be  spread  pretty  thin. 
To  be  sure,  there  was  no  particular  reason  why  Fox  should 
have  felt  obliged  to  look  out  for  the  Ladues.  One  wonders 
why  he  did  it.  That  question  had  occurred  to  him,  naturally, 
but  only  to  be  dismissed  at  once,  unanswered.  He  could  not 
leave  that  little  family  in  their  misfortunes  without  visible 
means  of  support,  and  that  was  the  end  of  it. 

These  considerations  will  serve  to  explain  Fox's  state  of 
mind:  why  he  felt  it  to  be  necessary  to  provide  for  Sally's 
future;  to  see  to  it  that  she  should  have  a  future  of  any  kind. 
They  may  also  explain  his  inquiries  about  rich  relatives. 
Not  that  he  had,  at  the  moment,  any  definite  idea  as  to  his 
course  of  action  in  the  event  that  she  had  such  desirable 
and  convenient  appendages.  In  fact,  it  remained  to  be  seen 
whether  they  were  either  desirable  or  convenient.  And  he 
wished  very  much  that  it  might  be  considered  no  impro 
priety  for  him  and  Henrietta  to  live  at  the  Ladues'.  It 
would  simplify  many  matters. 

Doctor  Galen,  to  whom  he  spoke,  with  some  hesitation, 
of  this  wish  of  his,  reassured  him. 

"I  should  say  that  it  would  be  a  very  wise  move,"  said 
the  doctor,  smiling.  "Where  is  the  impropriety?" 

Fox  murmured  something  about  Professor  Ladue  and 
about  his  seeming  to  take  the  management  of  his  family  out 
of  the  professor's  hands.  He  felt  a  little  delicate  about 
making  any  further  move  in  the  same  direction. 


88  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Pouf!"  the  doctor  exclaimed  scornfully.  "Ladue  has 
relinquished  all  right  to  management,  and  it 's  a  very  fortu 
nate  thing  that  he  has.  Mrs.  Ladue  will  be  very  much  of 
an  invalid  for  a  number  of  years,  unless  all  signs  fail.  There 
may  be  some  prying  people  —  but  there  are  always.  You 
had  better  tell  Sally  that  you  will  come  at  once.  I  think  it 
most  necessary." 

Fox  was  distinctly  relieved.  He  went  on  to  tell  the  doctor 
of  his  conversation  with  Sally.  "And  the  other  children  — 
except  Henrietta  —  have  fought  shy  of  coming  to  see  her 
since  that  day  of  the  party,"  he  continued.  "  I  suppose  they 
were  frightened.  They  have  scarcely  been  near  her.  Not 
that  Sally  seems  to  care.  I  think  she  is  glad  when  she  thinks 
of  them  at  all.  But  she  has  too  much  care.  She  takes  life 
too  seriously.  Why,  that  party  was  on  her  eleventh  birth 
day,  and  she  wants  to  go  out  scrubbing  or  selling  papers. 
Anything  to  earn  money.  We  can't  let  her  feel  so,  Doctor; 
we  just  can't." 

"Bless  her!"  said  the  doctor;  "of  course  we  can't.  She 
need  n't  worry  about  my  bill,  and  you  need  n't.  Between 
us,  Sanderson,  we  must  look  out  for  these  three  babes  in  the 
wood." 

"Thank  you,  Doctor." 

"And,  Sanderson,"  the  doctor  pursued  confidentially, 
"if  you  find  yourself  short  of  money,  —  you  might,  you 
know,  —  just  let  me  know.  But  don't  tell  anybody,  or  the 
Assyrians  will  be  upon  me,  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold;  and 
their  cohorts  won't  be  gleaming  with  purple  and  gold.  Not 
of  mine,  they  won't." 

Fox  laughed.  "Thank  you  again,  Doctor.  Thank  you 
very  much.  But  I  think  I  shall  be  able  to  carry  my  end,  on 
that  basis." 

Fox  did  carry  his  end.  He  and  Henrietta  moved  to  the 
Ladues'  as  soon  as  they  could,  Fox  into  the  professor's  old 
room,  with  the  skeleton  of  the  professor's  little  lizard  on  the 
floor,  under  the  window,  and  with  the  professor's  desk  to 
work  at.  He  seemed  to  have  been  pushed  by  chance  into 


CONCERNING  SALLY  89 

the  professor's  shoes,  and  he  did  not  like  it,  altogether.  He 
made  a  faint-hearted  protest  at  the  room. 

Sally's  eyes  filled.  "Why,  Fox,"  she  said,  "it's  the  best 
room  we've  got.  Is  n't  it  good  enough?" 

"It's  much  too  good,  Sally.  I  don't  expect  or  want  such 
a  good  room." 

"Oh,  is  that  all!"  Sally  was  smiling  now.  "If  it's  good 
enough,  I  guess  you  '11  have  to  be  satisfied.  It 's  ever  so  much 
convenienter  to  give  you  father's  room." 

So  Fox  had  to  be  satisfied.  Henrietta  had  the  room  next 
Sally's  own.  That  arrangement  was  "convenienter,"  too. 

One  of  the  first  things  he  did  at  the  professor's  desk  was 
to  write  a  letter  to  Miss  Martha  Havering  Hazen.  Sally 
had  succeeded  in  finding  her  address. 

"She  lives  in  Whitby,  Massachusetts,"  she  announced. 
"  I  don't  know  the  name  of  the  street,  and  I  don't  know  how 
rich  she  is." 

With  this,  the  affairs  of  Miss  Martha  Havering  Hazen 
passed  from  Sally's  mind.  She  had  other  things  to  attend  to. 
Fox  wrote  Miss  Hazen  a  letter  in  which  he  set  forth,  in  a 
very  business-like  way,  the  plight  in  which  the  Ladue  family 
found  themselves,  his  desire,  and  Sally's,  that  Sally's  future 
should  be  provided  for,  and  the  manner  in  which  it  was 
proposed  to  provide  for  the  aforesaid  future.  He  finished 
with  the  statement  that  the  funds  at  his  command  were 
insufficient  for  all  the  purposes  which  it  was  desired  to 
accomplish,  and  he  inquired  whether  she  were  disposed  to 
give  any  aid  and  comfort.  Then,  having  posted  this,  he 
waited  for  the  answer. 

He  waited  for  the  answer  so  long  that  he  began  to  fear 
that  his  letter  might  not  have  reached  Miss  Hazen ;  then  he 
waited  until,  at  last,  he  was  convinced  that  she  never 
received  it,  and  he  had  begun  to  think  that  she  must  be  a 
myth.  When  he  reached  this  conclusion,  he  was  sitting  on 
the  piazza,  and  Sally  and  Henrietta  and  Doctor  Galen  were 
coming  up  the  path  together.  Sally  had  her  hands  behind 
her.  She  came  and  stood  before  Fox,  her  eyes  twinkling. 


90  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Well,"  she  began. 

But  Fox  would  not  wait.  "Sally,"  he  said,  interrupting 
her,  "what  makes  you  think  that  Miss  Martha  Hazen  is  in 
existence  at  all.  You 've  never  seen  her.  I '11  bet  there 's  no 
such  a  person  and  never  was.  She's  a  myth." 

"What '11  you  bet?"  she  asked  promptly. 

"Anything  you  like." 

"No,  I  won't  bet,  for  it  would  n't  be  fair."  This  settled 
it  for  Sally.  In  that  respect  she  was  different  from  her 
father.  She  was  different  from  her  father  in  some  other 
important  respects,  too.  "Which  hand  will  you  have, 
Fox?" 

"I  guess  I'd  better  have  both." 

So  Sally  brought  both  hands  around  into  view  and  cast  a 
letter  into  his  lap.  Her  eyes  danced.  "There!"  she  said. 
"Now,  what '11  you  bet?" 

Doctor  Galen  was  leaning  against  the  railing  and  Henrietta 
could  not  keep  still. 

"Oh,  Fox,"  she  cried,  "open  it  and  let's  hear  what  she 
says.  Sally  showed  it  to  us  and  we  know  about  it." 

"Open  it,  Sanderson,"  the  doctor  put  in;  "don't  keep  us 
all  in  the  dark.  It's  suspense  that  kills." 

So  Sanderson  opened  it  and  read  it.  It  was  not  a  long 
letter. 

The  others  grew  impatient.  "Come,  come,"  said  the 
doctor,  "tell  us.  It  does  n't  matter  what  you  wrote  to  her. 
What  does  she  say?" 

"She  says,"  said  Fox,  smiling,  "that,  as  of  course  she 
did  n't  know  me,  she  has  been  obliged  to  have  all  my  state 
ments  investigated.  That  accounts  for  the  delay.  She  has 
found  them  all  to  be  true.  Gratifying,  is  n't  it?  But  the 
important  thing  is  that  she  offers  to  take  Sally  to  live  with 
her  and  agrees  to  educate  her  properly  —  if  Sally  will  go." 

They  were  all  very  sober  and  nobody  spoke.  Sally  was 
solemn  and  the  tears  came  slowly.  None  of  them  had  con 
templated  this,  Sally  least  of  all.  She  felt  as  if  there  had 
been  an  earthquake  or  some  such  convulsion  of  nature. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  91 

"Well,  Sally,"  Fox  went  on  at  last,  in  a  low  voice,  "it 
seems  to  be  up  to  you.  Will  you  go?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  Sally's  eyes  were  wide  with  anxiety 
and  with  doubt,  and  the  tears  dropped  slowly,  one  by  one. 
"How  can  I,  all  of  a  sudden?  It's  a  tremendous  surprise. 
I  don't  want  to,  but  if  it  will  help  more  than  staying  at 
home,  I  '11  go."  Suddenly  an  idea  seemed  to  have  struck  her. 
It  must  have  given  her  great  relief,  for  the  tears  stopped 
and  she  looked  happy  once  more.  "But,"  she  said  eagerly, 
"how  can  I?  Who  will  take  care  of  mother?  And  what 
would  we  do  with  Charlie?  Really,  Fox,  I  don't  see  how  I 
can  go." 

Strangely  enough,  Fox  seemed  to  be  relieved,  too.  At 
any  rate,  he  smiled  as  though  he  were. 

"Sure  enough,"  he  replied,  "how  can  you?  We  might 
possibly  manage  about  your  mother,"  he  added,  with  a 
glance  at  the  doctor,  "but  Charlie  is  a  problem." 

Doctor  Galen  had  nodded,  in  answer  to  that  glance  of 
Fox's.  "You  need  n't  worry  about  your  mother,  Sally,"  he 
said  then.  "We  would  take  good  care  of  her.  Do  you  know 
that  I  have  a  sanitarium  for  just  such  patients?  There  are 
nurses  and  everything  to  make  it  convenient.  And  there 
are  no  bothering  children  —  with  their  brothers  —  always 
underfoot."  As  he  said  that,  the  doctor  smiled  and  rested 
his  hand,  for  a  moment,  on  Henrietta's  shoulder.  Henrietta 
turned  and  laughed  up  at  him. 

"A  base  libel,"  Fox  remarked.  "But  all  that  doesn't 
take  care  of  Charlie." 

"Might  farm  him  out,"  the  doctor  suggested.  "What  do 
you  think  of  that  idea,  Sally?" 

"I  don't  believe  I  know  what  you  mean,"  she  answered. 
"Charlie  wouldn't  be  much  good  on  a  farm,  although  I 
suppose  a  farm  would  be  a  good  place  for  him.  Some  farms 
would,"  she  added. 

"It  depends  on  the  farm,  doesn't  it?"  said  Fox.  "It 
generally  does.  But  don't  you  care  what  the  doctor  meant, 
Sally.  He  did  n't  mean  anything,  probably.  We  are  n't 


92  CONCERNING  SALLY 

going  to  farm  Charlie  out  anyway.  What  shall  I  say  to 
Martha?  That's  the  immediate  point." 

Sally  chuckled.  " I'll  write  to  Martha,"  she  said,  as  soon 
as  she  could  speak;  "that  is,  if  you'll  let  me.  I '11  thank  her 
ever  so  much  for  offering  to  take  me,  and  I  '11  tell  her  why  I 
can't  come.  May  I,  Fox?" 

"All  right."  Fox  tossed  her  the  letter.  "And,  Sally,"  he 
called  softly,  for  she  had  started  into  the  house,  meaning 
to  write  her  letter  at  once.  "Sally,  if  Martha  answers  your 
letter,  you  tell  me  what  she  says." 

So  Sally  wrote  to  Martha.  It  took  her  a  long  time  and 
she  used  up  several  sheets  of  her  mother's  best  note-paper 
before  she  got  a  letter  written  that  she  was  satisfied  to  send. 
Miss  Hazen  was  longer  in  replying,  although  she  was  not  so 
long  as  she  had  been  in  replying  to  Fox.  Sally  did  not  care. 
Indeed,  she  did  not  give  the  matter  a  thought.  She  con 
sidered  the  question  settled. 

It  was  not.  Miss  Hazen  must  have  liked  Sally's  letter,  for 
she  grudgingly  consented  to  have  Charlie  come,  too,  if  that 
was  all  that  stood  in  the  way  of  Sally's  acceptance  of  her  offer. 
This  was  a  surprise  to  everybody;  to  none  of  them  more 
than  to  Miss  Hazen  herself.  She  had  no  liking  for  young  chil 
dren.  But  she  did  it.  There  seemed  to  be  no  escape  for  Sally 
now,  and  she  put  the  letter  in  Fox's  hand  without  a  word. 

"What's  the  matter,  Sally?"  he  asked,  shocked  at  her 
tragic  face.  "Has  the  bottom  dropped  out?" 

Sally  smiled,  but  her  chin  quivered.  "  It  seems  to  me  that 
it  has.  You  read  it,  Fox." 

So  Fox  read  it.  He  was  very  sober  when  he  looked  up 
and  it  was  a  long  time  before  he  spoke. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  whimsically,  "Martha  's  put  her 
foot  in  it  this  time,  has  n't  she?  What  do  you  think  you're 
going  to  do?" 

"  I  don't  see  how  I  can  refuse  any  longer,"  Sally  answered, 
her  voice  quivering  as  well  as  her  chin.  "Charlie  was  the 
only  objection  that  I  could  think  of;  the  only  real  objection. 
I  s'pose  I  '11  have  to  go  now,  and  take  Charlie." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  93 

Fox  did  not  reply  immediately. 

Sally's  chin  quivered  more  and  more,  and  her  tears  over 
flowed.  "Oh,  Fox,"  she  wailed,  "I  don't  want  to.  I  don't 
want  to  leave  mother  and  home  and  —  and  everybody." 

Fox  drew  her  toward  him  and  patted  her  shoulder. 
"There,  there,  Sally,"  he  said  gently.  "You  shan't  go  if  you 
don't  want  to.  We'll  manage  somehow.  Don't  feel  so 
badly,  Sally.  Don't." 

Sally's  fit  of  crying  was  already  over.  Her  tears  ceased 
and  she  felt  for  her  handkerchief. 

"I  won't,"  she  said,  with  a  pitiful  little  attempt  at  a 
smile.  "  I  'm  not  going  to  cry  any  more.  Have  —  have  you 
got  a  handkerchief,  Fox?" 

Fox  wiped  her  eyes.  "We'll  call  a  council  of  war,"  he 
said;  "you  and  Doctor  Galen  and  I  will  talk  it  over  and 
decide  what  shall  be  done.  Not  about  Martha,"  he  added 
hastily.  "That's  settled,  Sally,  if  you  don't  want  to  go. 
I  '11  write  to  her  and  tell  her  that  you  can't  come." 

"No,"  Sally  protested  earnestly,  "it's  not  settled;  at 
least,  not  that  way.  I  '11  go  if  —  if  that 's  the  best  thing  for 
us.  I  was  only  crying  because  —  because  I  hate  to  think  of 
leaving.  I  can't  help  that,  you  know,  Fox." 

"I  know,  Sally.   I've  been  through  it  all." 

"And  so  our  council  of  war,"  Sally  continued,  "will 
decide  about  that,  too." 

The  council  of  war  held  a  long  and  earnest  session  and 
eventually  decided  that  it  was  best  for  Sally  to  accept  Miss 
Hazen's  offer  and  to  go  to  Whitby.  Sally  acquiesced  in  the 
decision,  but  it  seemed  to  Fox  necessary  to  do  a  little  ex 
plaining. 

"You  know,  Sally,"  he  said,  "your  mother  is  likely  to  be 
a  long  time  in  getting  back  her  health.  She  won't  be  herself 
for  a  number  of  years.  It  would  only  be  painful  to  you  — " 

"I  know  all  that,  Fox,"  Sally  interrupted,  a  little  impa 
tiently.  She  had  had  it  pretty  thoroughly  drummed  into 
her.  "I  know  all  that,  and  it  does  n't  make  any  difference 
whether  I  think  so  or  not.  I  see  that  it 's  the  best  thing  for 


94  CONCERNING  SALLY 

us  all  that  Charlie  and  I  should  go,  and  we  will  go.  That's 
settled.  But  you  will  write  to  me  often,  and  let  me  know 
how  mother  gets  along  —  and  tell  me  the  news,  won't  you?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  am  going  to,"  Fox  cried  with  emphasis. 
"What  did  you  think  —  that  we  were  going  to  let  you  slip 
away  from  us  suddenly,  altogether?  Not  much.  I'm  going 
to  write  you  every  blessed  week.  And  see  that  you  answer 
my  letters  every  week,  too." 

Sally  felt  comparatively  cheerful  once  more.  "I  will," 
she  answered,  smiling. 

"Bless  your  heart!"  said  Fox. 

Doctor  Galen  looked  aggrieved. 

"And  where  do  I  come  in?"  he  asked.  "Aren't  you 
going  to  promise  to  write  me,  too?  Your  mother  will  be 
at  my  sanitarium  and  I  have  a  good  mind  to  give  orders 
that  Fox  Sanderson  is  to  be  told  nothing  about  her.  Then 
you  would  have  to  get  your  information  from  me." 

"  I  did  n't  s'pose  you  'd  care  to  have  me,  you  're  so  busy." 
Sally  was  pleased.  "But  I'd  love  to,  Doctor,  I'd  love  to. 
Do  you  really  want  me  to?" 

"If  you  don't,  I'll  never  forgive  you.  I'm  a  very  cruel 
man,  and  that  is  the  only  way  to  insure  good  treatment  for 
your  mother.  You'd  better,  Sally."  And  the  doctor  wagged 
his  head  in  a  threatening  manner. 

Sally  laughed.  "It'll  be  your  own  fault  if  you  get  too 
many  letters.  But  you  need  n't  answer  them,  if  you  don't 
have  time." 

"We'll  see.  We'll  see.  I  guess  I  shall  manage  to  find  a 
few  minutes,  now  and  then,  to  write  to  Miss  Sally  Ladue." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  September  before  Sally  was  ready  to  go  to  Whitby. 
Indeed,  it  cannot  be  said  that  she  was  ready  then,  or 
that  she  ever  would  have  been  ready,  if  her  wishes  only 
had  been  involved.  But  by  the  middle  of  September  she 
had  done  all  the  things  that  she  had  to  do,  her  belongings 
and  Charlie's  were  packed  in  two  small  trunks,  and  there 
did  not  seem  to  be  any  excuse  for  delaying  her  departure 
longer. 

She  had  gone,  with  Doctor  Galen,  one  memorable  day, 
to  see  the  sanitarium.  He,  I  suppose,  had  thought  that 
perhaps  Sally  would  feel  better  about  going  if  she  saw  for 
herself  just  the  way  in  which  her  mother  would  be  taken 
care  of.  So  he  took  her  all  over  the  building,  himself  acting 
as  her  guide,  and  she  saw  it  all.  She  did  feel  better.  When 
she  had  seen  the  whole  thing  and  had  absorbed  as  much 
as  the  doctor  thought  was  good  for  her,  they  went  into  town 
again  and  had  lunch  with  Mrs.  Galen.  There  were  n't  any 
children  and  there  never  had  been.  So  much  the  worse  for 
the  doctor  and  for  Mrs.  Galen.  They  had  missed  the  best 
thing  in  life,  and  they  knew  that  they  had  and  regretted  it. 
After  lunch,  the  doctor  went  home  with  Sally.  She  thought, 
with  some  wonder  at  it,  that  the  doctor  could  not  have  had 
much  to  do  that  day,  for  he  had  given  the  whole  of  it  to  her. 
There  were  many  of  his  patients  who  thought  otherwise  — 
a  whole  office  full  of  them ;  and  they  waited  in  vain  for  the 
doctor. 

A  few  days  later  Sally  had  bidden  a  last  mournful  fare 
well  to  all  her  favorite  haunts.  She  had  been  devoting  her 
spare  time  for  a  week  to  that  melancholy  but  pleasant  duty. 
The  little  lizard  would  never  more  sit  high  in  the  branches 
of  the  coal  trees  and  look  out  over  the  prospect  of  treetops 


96  CONCERNING  SALLY 

and  swamp.  Never  again  would  the  gynesaurus  feed  on 
stove  coal  plucked,  ripe,  from  the  branches  whereon  it 
grew.  Sally  laughed,  in  spite  of  her  melancholy,  as  this 
thought  passed  through  her  mind;  and  the  gynesaurus 
stopped  eating  coal  and  incontinently  slid  and  scrambled 
down  the  tree,  landing  on  the  ground  with  a  thump  which 
was  more  like  that  made  by  a  little  girl  than  that  a  lizard 
would  make.  And  she  ran  into  the  house  in  rather  a  cheerful 
frame  of  mind.  It  was  almost  time  for  the  man  to  come  for 
their  trunks. 

Fox  met  her  as  she  came  in.  " It's  a  good  chance  to  say 
good-bye  to  your  mother,  Sally.  She 's  wandering  about  in 
her  room." 

All  of  Sally's  cheerfulness  vanished  at  that.  She  knew 
just  how  she  should  find  her  mother:  aimlessly  wandering 
from  one  part  of  the  room  to  another,  intending,  always,  to 
do  something,  and  always  forgetting  what  it  was  she  in 
tended  to  do.  But  Sally  found  Charlie  and,  together,  they 
went  to  their  mother. 

It  was  the  same  sweet,  gentle  voice  that  called  to  them 
to  come  in.  It  was  the  same  sweet,  gentle  woman  who 
greeted  them.  But  in  her  dull  eyes  there  was  scarcely 
recognition.  To  Sally  it  was  as  though  a  thick  veil  hung 
always  before  her  mother,  through  which  she  could  neither 
see  clearly  nor  be  seen.  Her  processes  of  mind  were  as  vague 
and  as  crude  as  those  of  a  baby.  If  she  was  better  than  she 
had  been,  how  very  ill  she  must  have  been ! 

Mrs.  Ladue  did  not  realize  what  Sally's  good-bye  meant. 
She  was  utterly  incapable  of  taking  in  the  changes  which 
were  before  Sally  or  before  herself.  She  returned  Sally's 
good-bye  impassively,  as  though  Sally  were  going  no  farther 
than  downstairs;  and  when  Charlie,  impatient  and  a  little 
frightened,  fretted  and  pulled  at  Sally's  hand,  Mrs.  Ladue 
did  not  seem  to  mind.  It  was  as  if  Charlie  were  some 
strange  child,  in  whom  she  had  no  interest.  Poor  lady! 

"Why  don't  you  take  him  away?"  she  asked.  "He 
wants  to  go." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  97 

So  Sally,  choking  with  tenderness,  took  him  away.  She 
cried  a  little  on  Fox's  shoulder. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  can't  bear  it,  Fox,"  she  sobbed. 
"To  see  mother  so  —  is  she  really  better?" 

"You  know  she  is,  Sally." 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  I  do."  Sally's  sobs  gradually  ceased.  "  But 
it 's  terribly  slow.  She  '11  have  forgotten  us  by  the  time  she 
gets  well." 

"No  fear,  Sally,"  Fox  replied,  with  a  gentle  smile.  "No 
fear  of  that.  Come,  here's  the  man  for  our  things." 

Fox  was  going  with  them.  Sally  dried  her  eyes  while  he 
went  to  see  about  the  trunks. 

As  they  walked  out  at  the  gate,  Fox  glanced  at  Sally. 
Her  lips  were  tightly  shut  and  she  did  not  look  back  once, 
but  she  kept  her  gaze  firmly  fixed  ahead,  as  if  she  were 
afraid  of  being  turned  into  a  pillar  of  salt.  Nobody  knew 
how  much  determination  it  took  for  her  to  do  so.  She 
would  have  liked  to  cry  again  and  kiss  every  tree  in 
the  place.  But  she  would  n't  cry  again.  She  just  would 
not. 

Henrietta  met  them  before  they  had  gone  far,  and  rattled 
on  as  though  she  had  been  talking  on  a  wager.  Sally  could 
n't  talk.  And  Henrietta  went  to  the  station  with  them, 
still  talking  fast,  and  stayed  with  Sally  and  Charlie  while 
Fox  checked  the  trunks.  Then  the  train  came  and  Sally 
lingered  at  the  door  of  the  car. 

"Good-bye,  Sally,"  Henrietta  called.  "Perhaps  I  could 
come  to  visit  you  if  you  asked  me." 

"I  will  if  I  can,"  said  Sally.  "You  know  it  won't  be  my 
house  and  I  'm  afraid  that  Cousin  Martha  may  not  find  it 
convenient.  If  it  was  my  house  I  'd  ask  you  now." 

The  train  started.  "Good-bye,  Sally,"  Henrietta  called 
again  as  she  ran  along  the  platform;  "I  wish  I  were  going 
with  you." 

"I  wish  you  were,"  Sally  answered.  "Oh,  I  do  wish  you 
were,  Henrietta.  Good-bye." 

For  Henrietta  had  come  to  the  end  of  the  platform  and 


98  CONCERNING  SALLY 

had  stopped.  The  train  was  going  almost  too  fast  for  her 
anyway. 

"You'd  better  come  inside,  Sally."  And  Fox  drew  her 
inside  and  shut  the  door. 

Doctor  Galen  met  the  little  party  upon  its  arrival  in  the 
city.  There  was  nearly  an  hour  before  their  train  left  for 
New  York,  and  the  doctor  suggested  that  they  all  have 
lunch  together  in  the  station.  Sally  started  to  protest,  for 
did  they  not  have  a  package  containing  cold  chicken,  hard- 
boiled  eggs,  and  bread-and-butter?  But  the  doctor  observed 
that  he  had  never  yet  seen  the  time  when  a  cold  lunch  did 
not  come  in  handy,  and  they  might  find  use  for  it  later;  and, 
besides,  he  had  the  lunch  ordered  and  a  table  reserved.  A 
feeling  almost  of  cheerfulness  stole  over  Sally's  spirits;  and 
when,  lunch  over,  they  were  parting  from  the  doctor  at  the 
steps  of  the  car,  Sally  looked  up  at  him  somewhat  wistfully. 
He  interpreted  her  look  rightly,  and  bent  down. 

"Would  you,  Sally?"  he  asked.  "And  one  for  Mrs. 
Galen,  too.  Remember,  we  have  n't  any  children  of  our 
own." 

At  that,  Sally  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  gave 
him  two  for  himself  and  two  for  Mrs.  Galen.  The  doctor 
straightened  again. 

"Bless  you,  Sally!"  he  said  softly.  "I  wish  you  belonged 
to  us.  Don't  forget  your  promise." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

IT  was  very  early,  as  the  habits  of  the  Ladue  family 
went,  when  the  train  pulled  into  the  station  at  Whitby. 
For  Professor  Ladue  had  not  been  an  early  riser.  Col 
lege  professors  of  certain  types  are  not  noted  for  their  earli- 
ness.  One  of  these  types  had  been  well  represented  by  Pro 
fessor  Ladue.  He  had  not,  to  be  sure,  ever  met  his  classes 
clad  in  his  evening  clothes;  but,  no  doubt,  he  would  have 
done  so,  in  time,  if  his  career  had  not  been  cut  short. 

The  train  did  not  go  beyond  Whitby.  One  reason  why  it 
did  not  was  that  there  was  nothing  beyond  but  water  and 
no  stations  of  permanence.  There  was  plenty  of  time  to 
get  out  of  the  train  without  feeling  hurried.  Fox  got  out 
and  helped  Charlie  down  the  steps;  and  Sally  got  out, 
feeling  as  if  she  had  already  been  up  half  the  night.  Indeed, 
she  had,  almost,  for  she  had  been  so  afraid  of  oversleeping 
that  she  had  been  only  dozing  since  midnight. 

"I  wonder,  Fox,"  she  said  as  she  came  down  the  steps, 
"whether  there  will  be  any  one  here  to  meet  us." 

"Cast  your  eye  over  the  crowd,"  Fox  whispered,  "and  if 
you  see  a  thin,  haughty  lady  standing  somewhat  aloof  from 
the  common  herd,  I'll  bet  my  hat  that's  Martha." 

Sally  chuckled  involuntarily,  and  she  cast  her  eye  over 
the  crowd  as  Fox  had  told  her  to  do.  There  was  a  lady,  who 
seemed  to  be  somewhat  haughty,  standing  back  by  the  wall 
of  the  station,  aloof  from  the  common  herd,  but  she  was 
not  as  thin  as  Sally  had  expected  Cousin  Martha  to  be.  This 
lady  was  evidently  expecting  somebody  —  or  somebodies  — 
and  was  watching,  with  a  shadow  of  anxiety  on  her  face, 
as  the  crowd  poured  out  of  the  doors  and  flowed  down  the 
steps.  Then  her  gaze  happened  to  alight  upon  Sally  and  her 
eyebrows  lifted,  quickly,  and  she  smiled.  Sally  smiled  as 


ioo  CONCERNING  SALLY 

quickly  in  return  and  made  up  her  mind,  on  the  spot,  that, 
if  that  .was  Cousin  Martha,  she  should  rather  like  Cousin 
Martha. 

The  lady  had  come  forward  at  once,  with  a  rapid,  nervous 
walk,  and  met  them  as  soon  as  the  crowd  would  let  her. 

"Sarah  Ladue?"  she  asked. 

"Sally,  Cousin  Martha,"  Sally  replied.  "Everybody 
calls  me  Sally." 

"Well,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Sally."  Cousin  Martha 
kissed  her  on  the  cheek ;  a  quick,  nervous  peck.  Sally  tried 
to  kiss  Cousin  Martha  while  she  had  the  chance,  but  she 
succeeded  in  getting  no  more  than  a  corner  of  a  veil.  "  How 
did  you  know  me?" 

"  I  did  n't.  I  only  saw  that  you  were  looking  for  somebody, 
and  I  thought  it  might  be  me  you  were  looking  for." 

"Oh,  so  that  was  it!"  Miss  Hazen  smiled  faintly  and 
sighed.  "I  thought  that  perhaps  you  might  have  recognized 
me  from  the  photograph  I  once  gave  your  father.  But  I 
forgot  that  that  was  a  great  many  years  ago."  She  sighed 
again. 

Sally  tried  in  vain  to  remember  any  photograph  of  Miss 
Martha  Hazen.  She  did  remember  something  else. 

"This  is  Fox  Sanderson,"  she  said,  holding  on  to  Fox's 
arm,  "who  has  just  come  on  to  bring  us.  Fox  is  very  kind. 
And  here  is  Charlie." 

She  dragged  Charlie  forward  by  the  collar.  He  had  been 
behind  her,  absorbed  in  the  movements  of  the  engine. 

"Oh,  what  a  pretty  boy!"  exclaimed  Cousin  Martha. 
"How  do  you  do,  Charlie?" 

"Not  a  pretty  boy!"  cried  Charlie. 

Sally  shook  him.  "Say  very  well,  I  thank  you,"  she  whis 
pered. 

"Very-well-I-thank-you,"  Charlie  repeated  sulkily.  "I'm 
hungry." 

Miss  Hazen  laughed.  "Mercy  on  us!"  she  said.  "We 
must  be  getting  home  to  give  you  something  to  eat."  She 
extended  the  tips  of  her  fingers  to  Fox.  "  I  'm  very  glad  to 


CONCERNING  SALLY  101 

see  you,  too,  Mr.  Sanderson.  You  will  come  home  with  us, 
too?  The  carriage  is  waiting." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Hazen.  I  must  see  about  the  trunks, 
I  suppose;  Sally's  and  Charlie's.  I  did  n't  bring  any,  for  I 
must  go  back  to-night." 

"Then,  perhaps,  you  will  spend  the  day  with  us?" 

Fox  thanked  her  again  and  Cousin  Martha  told  him  what 
to  do  about  the  trunks.  There  was  one  baggageman,  in 
particular,  whom  the  Hazens  had  employed  for  years  when 
there  had  been  trunks  to  go  or  to  come.  That  that  baggage 
man  was  now  old  and  nearly  as  decrepit  as  his  horse  and 
wagon  made  no  difference. 

They  were  soon  in  Miss  Hazen 's  stout  carriage,  behind 
a  single  stout  horse.  Sally  had  not  noticed,  before,  that  the 
water  was  so  near.  They  went  through  some  very  dirty 
streets,  past  saloons  and  tenement-houses.  Miss  Hazen 
regarded  them  sadly. 

"One  gets  a  poor  impression  of  Whitby  from  the  entrance 
into  it,"  she  observed.  "This  part  of  the  city  has  changed 
very  much  since  my  young  days;  changed  much  for  the 
worse.  It  is  a  great  pity  that  the  railroad  does  not  come  in  at 
some  different  place.  On  the  hill,  now,  one  would  get  a  very 
different  impression.  But  there  are  parts  of  the  city  which 
have  not  changed  so  very  much.  Although,"  she  added 
thoughtfully,  "all  the  change  is  for  the  worse,  it  seems  to 
me." 

There  did  not  seem  to  be  anything  to  be  said  that  would 
be  of  any  comfort.  Fox  murmured  something,  and  then 
they  drove  up  an  extraordinarily  steep  hill.  The  horse  had 
all  he  could  do  to  drag  them  at  a  walk.  But,  looking  up  the 
hill,  Sally  saw  a  pleasant  street  with  elms  arching  over  it. 

"Oh,  how  lovely!"  she  cried.  "Do  you  live  in  this  part 
of  the  city,  Cousin  Martha?" 

"No,"  Cousin  Martha  replied,  with  rather  more  than  a 
suspicion  of  pride  in  her  voice.  "Where  we  live,  it  is  prettier 
than  this." 

"Oh,"  said  Sally.  Then  she  recollected. 


io*  .  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"There  was  a  very  nice  man  on  the  boat,"  she  remarked. 
"He  was  some  sort  of  an  officer,  but  I  don't  know  exactly 
what.  He  said  he  lived  in  Whitby,  and  he  had  several  chil 
dren.  The  youngest  girl  is  about  my  age.  Do  you  know 
them,  Cousin  Martha?  Their  name  is  Wills." 

"Wills?  Wills?   I  don't  think  I  know  any  Willses." 

"He  seemed  to  know  who  you  were,"  Sally  prompted. 
"He  knew  right  away,  as  soon  as  ever  I  told  him  where  I 
was  going." 

"It  is  likely  enough,"  said  Miss  Hazen,  trying  to  speak 
simply.  The  attempt  was  not  a  conspicuous  success.  "Many 
people,  whom  we  don't  know,  know  who  we  are.  The 
Willses  are  very  worthy  people,  I  have  no  doubt,  but  you 
are  not  likely  to  know  them." 

"He  said  that,  too,"  Sally  observed. 

Miss  Hazen  looked  as  if  she  would  have  liked  to  commend 
Mr.  Wills's  discrimination;  but  she  did  not  and  they  con 
tinued  their  drive  in  silence.  The  streets  seemed  all  to  be 
arched  over  with  elms;  all  that  they  drove  through,  at  all 
events.  Presently  they  reached  the  top  of  the  hill  and  turned 
into  a  street  that  was  as  crooked  as  it  could  be.  It  turned 
this  way  and  that  and  went,  gently,  uphill  and  down;  but, 
always,  it  seemed  to  be  trying  to  keep  on  the  top  of  the 
ridge.  Sally  remarked  upon  it. 

"You  might  call  this  the  Ridge  Road,"  she  said;  "like 
Ridge  Road  in  Philadelphia.  I  have  never  been  on  the 
Ridge  Road  in  Philadelphia,"  she  added  hastily,  fearing 
that  Cousin  Martha  might  think  she  was  pretending  to  be 
what  she  was  not,  "but  I  have  always  imagined  that  it  was 
something  like  this." 

Fox  and  Miss  Hazen  laughed.  "Not  much  like  it,  Sally," 
said  Fox. 

"Or,"  Sally  resumed,  "you  might  call  it  the  Cow  Path. 
It  is  crooked  enough  to  be  one." 

"That  is  just  what  it  used  to  be  called,"  said  Miss  Hazen. 
"It  was  not  a  very  poetical  name,  but  we  liked  it.  They 
changed  the  name,  some  years  ago." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  103 

"What?"  Sally  asked.   "What  did  they  change  it  to?" 

"Washington  Street,"  answered  Cousin  Martha  plain 
tively.  "  It  seemed  to  us  that  it  was  not  necessary  to  call  it 
Washington  Street.  There  is  no  individuality  in  the  name." 

Fox  laughed  again.   "Not  a  great  deal,"  he  agreed. 

Miss  Hazen  smiled  and  sighed. 

"We  cling  to  the  old  names,"  she  continued.  "We  still 
call  this  street,  among  ourselves,  the  Cow  Path,  and  Parker 
Street  is  still  West  India  Lane,  and  Smith  Street  is  Witch 
Lane.  The  old  names  are  more  picturesque  and  romantic. 
There  seemed  to  be  no  sufficient  reason  for  changing  them. 
For  us,  they  are  not  changed." 

Washington  Street  —  the  Cow  Path,  as  Miss  Hazen  pre 
ferred  to  call  it  —  had  upon  it  a  great  many  handsome 
places.  They  were  big  houses,  of  stone,  for  the  most  part, 
or  covered  with  stucco,  although  a  few  of  them  were  of 
wood ;  and  they  were  set  well  back  from  the  street,  behind 
well-kept  lawns  with  clumps  of  shrubbery  or  of  trees  scat 
tered  at  careful  random.  Sally  did  not  see  one  of  these  old 
places  with  the  rather  formal  garden,  with  its  box  hedges, 
in  front  of  the  house,  but  she  saw  a  good  many  with  gor 
geous  gardens  at  the  side,  and  many  with  the  gardens,  ap 
parently,  at  the  back. 

They  were  very  different,  these  great  places,  from  her 
own  home.  Her  own  home  might  have  occupied  a  whole 
square,  as  many  of  these  did,  if  it  had  been  in  a  city.  It  was 
not  in  a  city,  but  in  what  was  scarcely  more  than  a  village  and 
the  trees  were  where  nature  had  set  them.  The  whole  place  — 
Sally's  own  place  —  had  an  atmosphere  of  wildness  quite  in 
keeping  with  coal  trees  and  sauri.  These  places,  if  they  had 
had  no  more  care  than  the  professor  had  been  accustomed 
to  give  to  his,  would  have  a  pathetic  air  of  abandon  and 
desolation.  What  would  a  poor  little  gynesaurus  do  here? 

They  turned  off  of  the  Cow  Path  and  Miss  Hazen  bright 
ened  perceptibly. 

"  We  are  getting  near  home,"  she  remarked.  "Our  house 
is  on  the  next  corner." 


104  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Oh,  is  it?"  Sally  asked.   "What  street  is  this?" 

"This  is  Box  Elder  and  our  house  is  on  the  corner  of 
Apple  Tree." 

Sally  laughed.  "How  funny!"  she  said.  "And  what 
pretty  names!" 

"We  think  they  are  pretty  names.   Now,  here  we  are." 

They  were  just  turning  in  between  granite  gateposts  that 
were  green  with  dampness,  and  Sally  looked  up  with  a  lively 
interest.  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  wooden  front  fence  of 
three  octagonal  rails;  but  it  was  only  a  glimpse,  for  the 
view  was  cut  off,  almost  immediately,  by  the  row  of  great 
evergreens  which  stood  just  back  of  the  fence.  There  were 
two  other  evergreens  in  the  middle  of  the  plot  of  lawn,  and 
the  elms  on  the  streets  stretched  their  branches  far  over, 
nearly  to  the  house.  Altogether,  it  gave  a  depressing  effect 
of  gloom  and  decay,  which  the  aspect  of  the  house  itself 
did  not  tend  to  relieve. 

It  was  a  wooden  house,  large  and  square,  although  not  so 
large  as  those  on  the  Cow  Path.  It  had  a  deeply  recessed 
doorway  with  four  wooden  columns  extending  up  two 
stories  to  support  the  gable.  The  house  was  not  clap- 
boarded,  but  was  smooth  and  sanded  and  its  surface  was 
grooved  to  look  like  stone.  It  might  once  have  been  a  fair 
imitation  of  granite,  but  the  time  was  in  the  distant  past 
when  the  old  house  would  have  fooled  even  the  most  casual 
observer.  And  it  gave  them  no  welcome ;  nobody  opened  the 
door  at  their  approach,  or,  at  least,  nobody  on  the  inside. 
The  door  did  not  open  until  Cousin  Martha  opened  it  her 
self,  disclosing  a  dark  and  gloomy  interior. 

"Come  in,  Sally,"  she  said;  "and  you,  too,  Mr.  Sander 
son,  if  you  please.  If  you  will  wait  in  the  parlor  for  a 
moment,  I  will  see  about  some  breakfast  for  you.  I  have  no 
doubt  you  are  both  hungry  as  well  as  Charlie.  We  have  had 
our  breakfast." 

Sally  wondered  who  the  "we"  might  be.  It  had  not  oc 
curred  to  her  until  that  moment  that  there  might  be  some 
body  else  in  that  great  gloomy  house  besides  Cousin  Martha. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  105 

"Sally,"  cried  Charlie  fretfully  as  they  entered  the  dark 
parlor.  "  I  want  to  go  home.  I  want  to  go  to  my  own  home, 
Sally." 

"Hush,  Charlie,"  said  Sally.  "This  is  our  home  now. 
Hush.  Cousin  Martha  may  hear  you." 

Charlie  would  not  hush.  He  was  tired  and  hungry, 
although  they  had  had  an  apology  for  a  breakfast,  the 
remains  of  their  cold  lunch,  before  six  o'clock. 

"Is  n't  my  home.  This  old  house  is  n't  — " 

The  words  died  on  his  lips ;  for  there  was  a  sound  behind 
the  half-opened  folding-doors  at  the  end  of  the  long  room, 
and  an  old  man  appeared  there.  He  seemed  to  Sally  to  be 
a  very  old  man.  He  had  a  long  white  beard  and  stooped 
slightly  as  he  made  his  way  slowly  toward  them. 

"Is  this  Sarah  Ladue?"  he  asked  as  he  came  forward. 
He  came  near  Sally  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Sally  doubtfully,  laying  her  hand 
in  his.  "It's  Sally." 

The  old  man  must  have  detected  the  doubt.  "Well, 
Sally,"  he  said  kindly,  "I  am  your  father's  uncle,  your 
Cousin  Patty's  father."  So  Cousin  Martha  and  Cousin 
Patty  were  one. 

"Oh!"  returned  Sally  quickly.  "I  thought  — that  is, 
I  'm  very  glad  to  see  you." 

The  old  gentleman  smiled  quietly.  "And  I'm  very  glad 
to  see  you.  Don't  you  want  to  come  into  the  back  par 
lor?  There's  a  fire  in  there.  You,  too,  sir,"  turning  to 
Fox. 

"I  forgot,"  interrupted  Sally.  "I  am  always  forgetting 
to  do  it.  This  is  Mr.  Sanderson.  He  is  a  very  kind  friend  of 
ours.  He  came  all  the  way  with  us  just  to  see  that  we  got 
here  safely.  And  this  is  Charlie,  sir." 

"I  am  happy  to  meet  a  very  kind  friend  of  Sally's,"  the 
old  gentleman  said,  shaking  hands  with  Fox.  "From  what 
I  hear,  she  is  in  need  of  kind  friends."  He  held  his  hand  out 
to  Charlie.  "Will  this  little  boy  shake  hands  with  his  Uncle 
John?" 


106  CONCERNING  SALLY 

That  appeared  to  be  the  last  thing  that  Charlie  wished 
to  do,  but  he  did  it,  sulkily,  without  a  word.  Then  the  old 
gentleman  led  the  way  slowly  into  the  back  parlor. 

Sally  remembered,  now,  that  she  had  heard  her  father 
speak  of  John  Hazen  —  John  Hazen,  Junior  —  with  that 
sneering  laugh  of  his;  that  cold,  mirthless  laugh  with  which 
he  managed  to  cast  ridicule  upon  anything  or  anybody. 
This  nice  old  gentleman  must  be  John  Hazen,  Junior.  But 
why  should  a  stooping  old  man  with  a  long  white  beard 
be  called  Junior?  Why,  on  earth,  Sally  wondered.  Surely, 
such  an  old  man  —  she  would  speak  to  Cousin  Martha  about 
it.  Perhaps  Cousin  Martha  had  a  brother  who  was  John, 
Junior.  As  for  Cousin  Martha's  father,  she  had  always 
taken  it  for  granted  that  he  was  a  disembodied  spirit. 

There  was  a  coal  fire  bubbling  in  the  grate  in  the  back 
parlor.  A  great  easy-chair  was  drawn  up  to  the  fire,  and 
beside  it,  on  the  floor,  lay  the  morning  paper,  where  Uncle 
John  had  dropped  it.  There  were  other  easy-chairs  in  the 
room,  and  books  and  magazines  were  scattered  over  the 
centre  table.  The  centre  table  had  a  much-stained  green 
cloth  top,  Sally  noticed.  Altogether,  this  room  was  cheerful, 
in  its  own  way,  as  any  room  which  is  lived  in  must  be ;  as  the 
great  front  parlor  was  not.  Its  way  was  not  the  way  Sally 
had  been  used  to.  It  was  too  dark,  to  begin  with,  and  the 
heavy  curtains  only  half  drawn  back  from  the  windows 
kept  out  most  of  the  light  which  managed  to  straggle  past 
the  trees. 

The  old  gentleman  began  to  place  other  chairs,  but  Fox 
did  it  for  him. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "And  now,  as  soon  as  Patty 
comes  back,  I  shall  have  to  leave  you,  if  you  will  excuse  me. 
I  usually  go  downtown  earlier  than  this,  but  I  wished  to  see 
Sally  before  I  went.  I  hope  you  will  make  yourselves  quite 
at  home." 

Consideration  of  just  this  kind  was  a  new  thing  for  Sally. 
"Oh,  thank  you,"  she  cried,  flushing  with  pleasure.  " It  was 
very  nice  of  you  to  want  to  wait  for  me." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  107 

The  old  gentleman  again  smiled  his  quiet  smile;  but 
before  he  could  say  anything,  Cousin  Martha  came  in. 

"I  have  some  breakfast  for  you,"  she  announced.  "Will 
you  go  to  your  rooms  first,  or  have  something  to  eat  first?" 

There  was  no  room  for  doubt  as  to  Charlie's  preference  in 
the  matter.  Miss  Hazen  smiled. 

"Very  well,  then,"  she  said.  "I  think  that  will  be  better. 
Have  your  breakfast  while  it  is  hot.  Then  I  can  take  you 
up  and  get  you  settled.  The  trunks  will  have  got  here  by 
that  time." 

"I  will  go  now,  Patty,"  said  her  father,  "if  you  will  be 
good  enough  to  help  me  with  my  overcoat." 

So  she  stopped  in  the  hall  and  held  his  coat  and  he  bade 
good-bye  to  every  one  by  name,  and  went  out  slowly. 

"Does  Uncle  John  go  downtown  every  day?"  Sally 
asked,  soon  after.  She  was  busy  with  her  breakfast. 

"Oh,  mercy,  yes,"  Miss  Hazen  replied.  "He  is  as  well 
able  to  attend  to  his  business  as  ever.  And  he  always  walks, 
unless  it  is  very  bad  walking :  icy  or  very  muddy.  I  am  afraid 
that  he  might  slip  and  fall,  and  old  bones,  you  know,  do  not 
mend  easily." 

"Is  he  —  is  he,"  Sally  went  on,  hesitating,  "John  Hazen, 
Junior?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Cousin  Martha.  "He  has  kept  the 
Junior." 

Sally  did  not  know  just  what  she  meant  by  that.  "I've 
heard  my  father  speak  of  John  Hazen,  Junior,"  she  re 
marked,  "and  I  did  n't  know  but,  perhaps,  I  might  have  a 
Cousin  John." 


BOOK  II 


CHAPTER   I 

SALLY  was  tolerably  happy  after  she  got  settled.  She  had 
cried  a  few  tears  into  Fox's  coat  when  he  was  going 
away  and  she  had  sent  many  messages  to  Henrietta 
and  to  Doctor  Galen  and  to  her  mother,  although  she  knew 
that  her  mother  would  receive  them  with  her  pitiful,  vacant 
smile  and  would  go  on  wondering  where  Sally  was.  She  had 
been  told,  of  course,  over  and  over,  but  could  not  seem  to 
grasp  the  reason  or,  indeed,  the  fact. 

Sally  had  wiped  her  eyes  and  sighed.  "I'm  not  going  to 
cry  any  more,"  she  had  said;  "and  I  shan't  be  unhappy, 
Fox.  I  just  won't  be." 

"You've  had  a  good  deal  to  make  you  unhappy,  Sally," 
Fox  had  replied  gently,  "but  I  do  hope  that  you  won't  be. 
You  can  trust  Doctor  Galen  to  do  the  very  best  for  your 
mother." 

"Yes,"  Sally  had  returned,  smiling;  "you  and  Doctor 
Galen.  You  forgot,  Fox.  And  I  'm  glad  that  father  has  gone 
away.  I'm  glad  —  glad,"  Sally  cried  passionately.  "He 
did  n't  do  a  thing  for  mother.  He  only  liked  to  make  her 
feel  bad.  She'd  have  died  if  he'd  stayed.  And  I  hope  you '11 
never  find  him.  I  hope  you  never  will." 

"We're  not  breaking  our  necks,  trying." 

"I'm  glad  of  it.  Oh,  Fox,  I've  never  said  such  a  thing 
before,  and  I  never  will  again.  But  I  just  had  to  or  I  should 
have  burst.  Don't  you  tell,  will  you?  Don't  ever  tell  any 
body." 

Fox  had  promised  and  had  kissed  her  and  had  started 
back,  feeling  comforted.  It  was  very  much  better  than  he 
had  expected,  and  Sally  had  made  up  her  mind.  There  was 
everything  in  that. 

Sally  woke  early  the  next  morning.    It  was  not  quite 


ii2  CONCERNING  SALLY 

light,  if  it  ever  could  be  said  to  be  quite  light  in  that  house. 
But  a  little  light  had  begun  to  filter  in  around  the  curtains, 
and  Sally  looked  about  the  great,  dim  room,  wondering  for 
a  moment  where  she  was.  Then  she  remembered;  she 
remembered,  too,  that  Uncle  John  had  breakfast  early. 
Cousin  Martha  had  forgotten  to  tell  her  at  what  time  to 
get  up,  but  there  could  be  no  harm  in  getting  up  now. 
Charlie  had  a  little  room  off  her  own  big  one,  probably  the 
dressing-room.  At  that  instant  Charlie  appeared,  wander 
ing  hesitatingly,  clad  only  in  his  little  pajamas,  which  had 
caused  some  surprise  on  Cousin  Martha's  part. 

"Oh,  how  very  cunning!"  she  had  exclaimed,  as  Sally 
unpacked  them. 

Now  Charlie  made  a  dive  for  Sally's  bed.  "I  want  to  get 
in  with  you,  Sally." 

But  Sally  thought  that  they  had  better  get  dressed,  and 
said  so.  When  Sally  said  things  in  that  way,  there  was  no 
appeal,  and  Charlie  submitted,  with  not  more  objection 
than  would  have  been  expected,  to  a  rapid  sponge;  for 
it  had  not  occurred  to  Sally,  the  night  before,  to  find  out 
about  a  bathtub.  It  might  very  well  be  that  the  house  had 
been  built  before  the  era  of  bathtubs  and  that  no  such 
useless  encumbrance  had  been  added.  Cousin  Martha  her 
self  solved  that  difficulty  for  her.  There  was  a  gentle  tap 
at  her  door. 

"Sally,"  called  Cousin  Martha's  voice,  "here  is  your  hot 
water.  Do  you  know  about  the  tub?" 

"No,"  answered  Sally,  opening  the  door;  "Charlie's  had 
his  bath,  Cousin  Martha,  as  good  a  one  as  I  could  give  him, 
but  I  have  n't." 

"You  didn't  splash  water  over  the  floor,  did  you?" 
Cousin  Martha  asked  anxiously,  scrutinizing  the  floor  for 
any  signs  of  wetting. 

"  I  tried  not  to,"  Sally  replied.  "  It 's  hardly  light  enough 
to  make  sure." 

Miss  Hazen  had  disappeared  into  Charlie's  room  and  now 
reappeared  bringing  a  tub.  It  was  a  large  shallow  pan,  a 


CONCERNING  SALLY  113 

sort  of  glorified  milk  pan,  and  might  have  been  made  of 
cast  iron,  judging  from  the  way  Miss  Hazen  carried  it. 
It  was  not  of  cast  iron,  but  of  tin;  the  kind  of  tin  that  can 
not  be  got  in  these  days,  even  for  love. 

"There!"  said  she,  setting  it  down. 

"Thank  you,  Cousin  Martha.  It  will  be  nice  to  have  that. 
But  you  don't  need  to  bring  us  hot  water.  We  don't  use  it." 

"Why,  Sally!"  Cousin  Martha  cried  in  a  horrified  voice. 
"You  don't  bathe  in  cold  water!"  Sally  nodded.  "Not 
tempered  at  all?" 

"Just  cold  water,"  Sally  responded. 

"But  it  will  be  very  cold,  later  on,"  remonstrated  Cousin 
Martha.  "The  water  sometimes  freezes  in  the  pitcher." 

Sally  chuckled.  "Long  as  it  does  n't  freeze  solid  it's  all 
right.  I  like  it  very  cold.  It  prickles  and  stings  me  all  over. 
We  like  it  cold,  don't  we,  Charlie?" 

Charlie  grunted.  He  did  not  seem  enthusiastic.  Miss 
Hazen  sighed  as  she  shut  the  door. 

Breakfast  was  over,  Uncle  John  had  gone,  and  things  had 
pretty  well  settled  down  for  the  day,  and  it  still  seemed  very 
early  to  Sally.  She  and  Charlie  wandered  in  the  yard  before 
eight  o'clock.  That  yard  seemed  very  restricted.  In  the 
first  place,  it  was  bounded  on  every  side  except  the  front  by 
a  high  wooden  fence.  The  top  of  the  fence  was  just  about 
level  with  the  top  of  Sally's  head,  so  that  she  could  n't  see 
over  it  without  jumping  up  or  climbing  on  something.  Sally 
had  thought  of  climbing,  of  course;  but,  first,  she  had  to  get 
Charlie  acquainted  with  the  yard,  so  that  he  would  stay  down 
contentedly.  Charlie  had  not  yet  developed  any  particular 
aptitude  for  climbing  trees. 

They  wandered  to  the  stable,  which  was  at  the  back  of 
the  house,  a  little  to  one  side,  and  opened  directly  upon 
Box  Elder  Street.  Here  they  found  the  man  attending  to  his 
duties  about  the  stout  horse.  That  man  paid  but  little 
attention  to  the  children,  but  continued  his  work  in  a  lei 
surely  manner.  No  doubt  this  was  praiseworthy  on  his  part, 
but  it  was  not  what  the  children  had  hoped  for,  and  they 


u4  CONCERNING  SALLY 

soon  wandered  out  again  and  went  towards  the  back  of  the 
yard.  Here  was  a  vegetable  garden  on  one  side  and  a  flower 
garden  on  the  other,  together  stretching  across  from  Box 
Elder  Street  to  a  little  street  that  was  scarcely  more  than  a 
lane.  Sally  had  been  in  Whitby  a  long  time  before  she  found 
that  this  was  Hazen's  Lane.  It  was  most  natural  to  speak 
of  it  as  "  The  Lane, "  and  "  The  Lane ' '  it  was. 

Back  of  the  two  gardens  was  another  high  wooden  fence ; 
and  behind  the  fence  was  a  row  of  maples  bordering  a  street. 
Sally  knew  it  was  a  street  because  she  could  see,  over  the 
top  of  the  fence,  the  fronts  of  two  houses  on  the  other  side 
of  it. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  sighed.  "There  doesn't  seem  to  be 
anything  very  interesting  here,  does  there,  Charlie?  You 
can't  even  see  farther  than  across  the  street.  I  suppose 
Cousin  Martha  would  n't  like  it  if  we  should  dig,  for  there 
is  n't  any  place  to  dig  but  the  garden." 

Charlie  began  to  whimper. 

At  this  moment  there  came  a  thump  on  the  fence  at  the 
corner  of  the  Lane.  The  thumping  continued,  in  a  rhythmi 
cal  manner,  as  if  it  were  in  time  with  somebody's  walking, 
and  progressed  slowly  along  the  Lane.  Presently  there  was 
a  double  thump  at  each  step,  and  Sally  saw  two  cloth  caps, 
exactly  alike,  bobbing  up  and  down,  almost  disappearing 
behind  the  fence  at  each  downward  bob. 

"It  looks  like  twins,"  she  said. 

"Follow  'em  along,"  said  Charlie,  in  some  excitement. 
"Come  on,  Sally." 

So  they  followed  'em  along  until  the  twin  caps  had  got 
almost  opposite  the  house.  Then  two  shrill  voices  broke 
into  sudden  song. 

"  Monkey  married  the  baboon's  sister, 
Smacked  his  lips  and  then  he  kissed  'er; 
Kissed  so  hard  he  —  " 

Sally  had  jumped  up  on  the  stringer  of  the  fence,  just 
where  the  caps  would  be  at  the  next  step.  "  It  is,  Charlie! " 
she  cried. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  115 

The  owners  of  the  two  caps  had  jumped  away  with  an 
alacrity  born  of  experience,  and  had  started  to  run.  They 
looked  back  and  stopped. 

"Hello! "  they  cried,  together,  in  surprise.  " Is  wh — wh — 
what,  Ch—Ch— Charlie?" 

"Twins,"  Sally  answered  in  triumph;  "are  n't  you?" 

The  twins  nodded.  "C — c — course  we  are,"  said  one. 
"Any — any — any — b — ody  know  that." 

"Wh — wh — what's  your  n — n — name?"  asked  the  other. 

"And  wh— wh— who's  Ch—Ch— Charlie?" 

"My  name  is  Sally  Ladue,"  replied  Sally,  "and  Charlie  's 
my  brother."  Charlie  popped  his  head  above  the  fence. 
"We've  come,"  she  continued,  thinking  that  she  might 
save  the  twins  the  painful  process  of  speech,  "we've  come 
to  live  here." 

"  W— w— with  P — P— Patty  H.?"  asked  one  of  the  twins, 
in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

It  was  impossible  for  any  one  who  was  not  very  familiar 
with  them  to  tell  whether  it  was  the  same  twin  who  had 
spoken  last  or  the  other  one ;  and  Sally  had  taken  her  eyes 
off  them  when  she  spoke  of  Charlie. 

"With  Uncle  John  and  Cousin  Martha,"  she  answered. 
"I've  never  called  her  Patty  H.  and  I  don't  think  it's  very 
respectful." 

The  twins  grinned.  "W — w — we  c — c — call  her  P — P — 
Patty  H.  be — be — bee — c — cause  it's  h — h — hard  to  s — s — 
say  Haa — Ha — Ha — Ha — Havering." 

Sally  had  hard  work  to  suppress  her  chuckles.  The  other 
twin  made  no  effort  to  suppress  his ;  he  laughed  heartlessly. 

His  brother  turned  upon  him.  "Sh — sh — shut  up,  you 
b — b — bum,  you!  You  c — c — could  n't  s — s — say  it." 

Sally  essayed  to  be  peacemaker.  "You  know,"  she  said 
hesitatingly,  "that  you  are  so  much  alike  that  I  can't  tell 
you  apart.  You're  just  like  Tweedledum  and  Tweedledee, 
and  you  seem  to  quarrel  just  the  same  as  they  did.  Now, 
you  're  Tweedledum,"  she  went  on,  pointing  at  one,  and  then 
at  the  other,  "and  you're  Tweedledee.  If  Dum  would  wear 


ii6  CONCERNING  SALLY 

a  red  ribbon  in  his  buttonhole  and  Dee  would  wear  a  blue 
one,  I  should  know.  It's  very  convenient  to  know." 

The  idea  of  wearing  ribbons  in  their  buttonholes  did 
not  seem  to  strike  the  twins  favorably.  They  shook  their 
heads. 

"Well,"  said  Sally  hastily,  "there's  another  thing:  you 
were  thumping  on  the  fence  and  singing  — " 

"We  c — c — can  s — s — sing  all  right  when  we  c — c — can't 
t — t — talk.  S — some  d — days  are  go — g — good  for  t — talk 
ing  and  s — some  are  b — b — bad.  Th — this  is  a  b — bad 
d— day." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so.  But  what  I  was  going  to  say  was  this : 
you  were  singing  something  that  may  have  been  meant  to 
plague  Cousin  Martha.  I  want  you  to  promise  not  to  try  to 
plague  her.  You  will  promise,  won't  you?  " 

The  twins  grinned  again  and  promised  with  evident  reluct 
ance. 

"You  g — going  to  our  s — s — school?"  inquired  Dum 
suddenly. 

"I  don't  know  about  schools,"  Sally  replied.  "I  suppose 
I'm  going  to  some  school,  and  Charlie,  too." 

"Ours,"  Dum  began;  but  at  the  mention  of  school  Dee 
started. 

"G — g — gee!"  he  exclaimed.  "We  g — g — got  to  h — h — 
hurry  or  we'll  be  1 — late.  C — c — come  on." 

The  twins  were  gone.  Sally  and  Charlie  got  down  from 
the  fence. 

"They  were  a  funny  pair,  were  n't  they,  Charlie?  " 

"Yes,  they  were.  Now,  Sally,"  Charlie  went  on  dismally, 
"what  you  goin'  to  do?" 

Sally  sighed.  It  was  not  nine  o'clock  and  Charlie  was  in 
the  dumps  already.  She  looked  around  and  there  was  Miss 
Hazen  just  coming  out  of  the  front  door. 

"There's  Cousin  Martha,  Charlie.  Let's  go  and  meet 
her." 

Charlie  was  not  in  a  state  to  be  enthusiastic  about  any 
thing,  certainly  not  about  Cousin  Martha.  He  did  n't  care; 


CONCERNING  SALLY  117 

but  he  went,  in  a  condition  of  dismal  melancholy  that 
touched  her. 

"Homesick,  poor  child!"  she  murmured.  "Charlie,"  she 
said  aloud,  "I  am  going  downtown  in  the  carriage,  to  do 
some  errands.  Don't  you  want  to  go?  You  and  Sally?" 

Charlie  thereupon  brightened  perceptibly.  "  I  '11  go  if  you 
want  me  to." 

Cousin  Martha  smiled  and  turned  to  Sally,  who  accepted. 
"Although,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  write  a  letter.  But  I  sup 
pose  there  '11  be  plenty  of  time  after  we  get  back.  We  've  just 
been  talking  with  the  funniest  pair  of  twins.  They  stutter." 

Miss  Hazen  sighed.  "I  know.  I  heard  them  banging  on 
the  fence.  They  are  the  Carling  twins.  Their  names  are 
Henry  and  Horace." 

"Harry  and  Horry,"  cried  Sally.   "But  which  is  older? " 

"Mercy!  I  don't  know,"  Cousin  Martha  answered.  "I 
can't  tell  them  apart.  One  is  just  as  bad  as  the  other." 

"I  've  an  idea,"  Sally  remarked,  "that  they  are  n't  going 
to  be  so  bad." 

Cousin  Martha  looked  curiously  at  Sally,  but  she  said 
nothing  and  just  then  the  carriage  came. 

Miss  Hazen  seemed  to  find  especial  delight  in  Charlie's 
society  on  that  drive.  She  talked  to  him  more  and  more 
while  she  went  to  do  her  errands.  Charlie,  on  the  whole, 
was  not  an  especially  attractive  child.  He  was  a  handsome 
boy,  but  he  was  apt  to  be  dissatisfied  and  discontented, 
which  gave  his  face  the  kind  of  expression  which  such  a 
disposition  always  gives.  He  seemed  to  be  developing  some 
of  the  characteristics  of  his  father.  Not  that  Sally  was 
aware  of  the  characteristics  Charlie  was  developing.  Charlie 
was  Charlie,  that  was  all.  She  saw  too  much  of  him  —  had 
had  the  care  of  him  too  continuously  —  to  realize  the  little 
resemblances  which  might  be  evident  to  one  who  had  less  to 
do  with  him.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  Miss  Hazen  realized 
those  resemblances,  although  she  may  not  have  been  con 
scious  of  it,  and  that  it  was  just  that  which  was  endearing 
him  to  her. 


ii8  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Whatever  the  reason,  Cousin  Martha  got  to  taking  him 
%with  her  at  every  opportunity.  Charlie  was  in  school  every 
morning,  for  one  of  Miss  Hazen's  errands,  on  that  first  day, 
had  been  to  arrange  for  school  for  both  Sally  and  Charlie. 
Charlie,  being  at  school  every  morning  except  Saturday, 
could  not  accompany  Cousin  Martha  on  her  drives  in 
the  mornings.  Consequently,  Cousin  Martha  changed  her 
habit  of  more  than  twenty  years'  standing  and  drove  in  the 
afternoon.  Her  father  smiled  when  he  heard  of  it  and  looked 
from  Charlie  to  Sally. 

"I  know  of  no  reason,  Patty,"  he  observed  quietly,  "why 
the  afternoon  is  not  as  good  a  time  for  driving  as  the  morn 
ing.  Does  n't  this  little  girl  go?" 

"Not  very  often,  Uncle  John,"  Sally  replied,  smiling  up 
at  him.  " I'm  —  I 'm  very  busy,  and  —  and  I 'd  rather  go 
anywhere  on  my  own  feet." 

He  patted  her  head  and  smiled.  He  liked  to  go  anywhere 
on  his  own  feet,  too. 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  was  a  blustery  Saturday  toward  the  last  of  March. 
Sally  had  written  her  letter  to  Fox  and  one  to  Doctor 
Galen,  more  to  take  up  time  than  because  she  had  any 
thing  to  say  that  she  thought  was  worth  saying ;  but  the  kind 
doctor  seemed  to  like  to  get  her  rather  infrequent  letters, 
and  he  always  answered  them,  although  his  answers  were 
rather  short.  But  what  could  she  expect  of  a  doctor  who 
was  as  busy  as  Doctor  Galen?  Not  much,  truly.  Cousin 
Martha  had  told  her  so.  Perhaps  I  had  better  call  her  Patty. 
Everybody  called  her  Patty  or  Miss  Patty.  Even  Sally  had 
fallen  into  that  habit.  Miss  Patty  may  have  preferred  it  or 
she  may  not  have;  her  preference  did  not  seem  to  matter. 
As  I  was  saying,  Cousin  Patty  had  told  her  so,  and  had 
intended  the  telling,  it  seemed  to  Sally,  rather  as  a  rebuke. 
Now,  Sally  did  not  know  why  she  should  be  rebuked,  —  for 
her  conscience  was  clear.  But  the  farne  of  Doctor  Galen 
had  gone  forth  in  the  land  and  Cousin  Patty  considered  it 
a  great  honor  that  any  one  of  her  family  connections  was 
under  his  care.  Hence  her  seeming  rebuke. 

Sally  had  finished  her  letter  to  the  doctor  and  it  was  only 
half-past  eight.  She  sighed  as  the  hall  clock  —  which,  by 
the  way,  was  in  the  back  parlor  —  struck  the  half-hour, 
solemnly,  as  if  it  were  aware  of  the  importance  of  its  office. 
That  tall  clock  did  its  whole  duty  conscientiously  —  with 
Uncle  John's  help.  Sally  sat  gazing  at  the  clock  and  meditat 
ing.  It  was  no  less  than  astonishing,  when  you  came  to 
think  of  it,  what  a  lot  of  things  in  that  house  depended  upon 
Uncle  John's  help.  He  never  made  a  show  of  giving  it,  but 
a  quiet  word  here  and  a  calm  smile  there  did  wonders.  He 
was  a  regulator,  that  was  what  he  was ;  a  sort  of  a  pendulum, 
to  make  things  go  right.  Sally  had  become  very  fond  of 


120  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Uncle  John.  Cousin  Patty  —  well  —  she  seemed  to  need  a 
regulator,  not  to  put  it  any  more  strongly.  Sally  smiled  as 
the  idea  crossed  her  mind,  and  she  took  the  end  of  the  pen 
holder  from  its  place  between  her  teeth  and  returned  to  the 
perusal  of  her  letter. 

Sally  always  read  over  her  letters,  and,  having  read  this 
one  over,  she  added  a  postscript  telling  the  doctor  —  a  very 
private  joke  between  him  and  her  —  of  Cousin  Patty's 
rebuke.  She  knew  that  he  would  be  amused.  When  she  had 
the  doctor's  letter  sealed,  she  looked  up  again  at  the  clock. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  murmured;  "it  must  have  stopped." 
She  knew  very  well  that  the  clock  would  not  be  guilty  of 
such  misbehavior  as  long  as  it  had  Uncle  John's  help.  "  I  '11 
write  to  Henrietta." 

To  tell  the  truth,  Sally  had  not  missed  Henrietta  one  half 
as  much  as  she  had  missed  Fox,  but  if  she  did  not  write  her 
very  often  it  was  simply  because  she  forgot  it.  When  she 
remembered,  she  was  always  very  sorry  and  wrote  frequently, 
until  she  forgot  again.  Sally's  letters  to  Henrietta  came  in 
bunches,  with  intervals  of  a  month  or  more  between  the 
bunches. 

She  had  not  got  very  far  on  this  one  when  Uncle  John 
came  in.  He  was  very  late  that  morning. 

"Sally,"  he  said,  "they  are  flying  kites  in  the  Lot.  You 
may  like  to  see  them." 

For,  as  I  said  at  the  beginning,  before  I  was  led  off  into 
this  digression,  it  was  a  blustery  Saturday  in  March. 

"Oh!"  Sally  cried,  pushing  back  her  chair.  "Are  they? 
Do  you  mind,  Uncle  John,  if  I  climb  a  tree  on  that  side? 
You  can't  see  over  the  wall,  you  know." 

Mr.  Hazen  smiled  quietly.  "Climb  any  tree  you  like," 
he  replied.  "You  will  be  careful,  Sally,  I  know;  careful  of 
yourself  and  of  the  trees.  But  where  is  Charlie?" 

"Cousin  Patty  is  getting  him  ready  to  go  out  with  her." 
Sally  was  pretty  well  relieved  of  the  care  of  Charlie  by  this 
time.  "  I  '11  finish  this  letter  when  I  come  in." 

She  jumped  up,  snatched  up  her  hood  and  her  coat  and 


CONCERNING  SALLY  121 

slipped  her  hand  into  Uncle  John's  and  they  went  out  to 
gether.  They  parted  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  and  Mr.  Hazen 
walked  slowly  downtown,  smiling  to  himself  in  a  satisfied 
way. 

Just  across  Box  Elder  Street  was  a  high  wall.  It  seemed  to 
Sally  to  be  at  least  twenty  feet  high ;  and  the  builder  of  that 
wall  had  added  insult  to  injury  by  cementing  it  smoothly 
on  the  outside  —  Sally  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  it  — 
and  by  capping  it  with  a  smooth  and  projecting  wooden 
roof.  The  wooden  roof  was  no  longer  smooth,  but  warped 
with  the  sun  and  the  rains  of  many  years,  and  the  mouldings 
on  the  under  edges  were  coming  away  in  places.  But  the 
wall  was  still  absolutely  unclimbable,  although  it  was  possi 
ble  to  see  over  it  from  the  upper  windows  of  the  house  or 
from  the  evergreens  which  surrounded  it.  Sally  preferred 
the  evergreens.  To  be  sure,  their  heavy  branches  somewhat 
interfered  with  the  view,  but,  at  least,  they  were  trees  and 
they  were  out  of  doors. 

When  Sally  had  found  a  comfortable  perch  in  a  spruce, 
she  looked  over  into  the  Lot.  The  Lot  was  a  relic  of  the 
past;  of  twenty-five  or  thirty  years  past.  Its  latest  useful 
service  had  been,  according  to  internal  evidence,  as  a  corn 
field.  The  boys,  running  across  it  with  their  kites,  were 
sure  of  this,  for  the  hills  were  still  there  and  made  running 
on  it  a  work  of  art,  especially  if  there  was  a  kite  at  the  end 
of  a  string  to  need  their  attention.  Indeed,  perhaps  I  was 
wrong  in  putting  the  flying  of  kites  in  the  class  of  useless 
service.  At  any  rate,  that  was  the  only  use  to  which  Mor 
ton's  lot  had  been  put  for  many  years.  It  was  called  "The 
Lot."  There  was  no  danger  of  ambiguity  in  so  speaking  of 
it,  any  more  than  there  was  in  speaking  of  Hazen 's  Lane  as 
"The  Lane."  No  one  would  have  any  doubt  at  all  —  no  one 
in  Sally's  set,  at  least  —  as  to  what  was  referred  to,  in  either 
case. 

Sally  looked  out  as  she  best  could  between  the  branches 
of  her  spruce.  She  could  n't  see  much,  only  a  little  piece  of 
the  field  at  each  opening.  It  was  very  unsatisfactory.  She 


122  CONCERNING  SALLY 

saw  five  or  six  boys,  two  of  them  large  boys,  bending  over 
something  which  lay  upon  the  ground.  Presently  the  group 
divided  and  the  boys  stood  up ;  and  she  saw  that  what  they 
had  been  working  on  was  a  huge  kite  of  the  old-fashioned 
six-sided  kind.  She  saw,  too,  that  the  big  boys  were  Everett 
Morton  and  Dick  Torrington.  At  that  moment  the  famil 
iar  figures  of  the  Carling  twins  slipped  through  a  break  in 
the  high  picket  fence  from  the  other  street.  Immediately, 
Sally  scrambled  out  of  the  spruce  and  ran  up  Box  Elder 
Street.  She  had  a  heightened  color,  but  that  might  have 
been  due  to  the  exertion  of  scrambling.  It  might  not  have 
been  due  to  the  exertion  of  scrambling.  Scrambling  was  no 
unusual  exertion  for  Sally. 

Sally's  rapid  change  of  base  was  not  because  of  the  re 
stricted  view  from  the  tree,  although  her  view  was  restricted. 
And  it  was  not  because  of  the  Carlings.  The  Carlings  were 
her  devoted  slaves;  but  that  fact  was  an  annoyance  to  her 
rather  than  a  gratification,  and  it  is  conceivable  that  the 
presence  of  the  Carlings  might  have  had  weight  in  inducing 
her  to  put  up  with  the  inconveniences  of  a  restricted  view. 
The  object  of  interest  must  therefore  have  been  either 
Everett  or  Dick  or  the  kite. 

At  her  school  Sally  was  in  the  fifth  class.  They  did  not 
have  forms  or  grades  at  that  school.  Grades  are  mysterious 
things  which  seem  to  run  the  wrong  way,  with  no  particular 
point  of  beginning  and  no  particular  ending.  A  man  might 
be  in  the  fiftieth  grade  if  there  were  any  teachers  for  it. 
There  seems  to  be  nothing  to  prevent.  But  when  a  boy 
graduates  from  the  first  class,  there  is  a  point  that  brings 
you  up  short.  Something  vital  must  happen  then;  and  the 
thing  that  happens  is  that  the  boy  either  goes  to  college  or 
goes  to  work,  for  it  is  out  of  the  question  to  go  any  farther 
in  that  school.  You  know  it  without  being  told. 

The  boys  in  Sally's  school  usually  went  to  college  when 
they  graduated  from  the  first  class.  They  were  well  pre 
pared  for  it.  Everett  and  Dick  were  in  the  first  class  and 
they  would  go  away  to  college  in  the  fall,  or,  at  least,  they 


CONCERNING  SALLY  123 

hoped  that  they  would.  There  was  some  doubt  about  it, 
for  Dick  was  rather  dull  and  plodding  and  Everett  was 
neither  dull  nor  plodding.  They  were  four  years  ahead  of 
Sally.  I  cannot  tell  why  she  had  chosen  those  two  to  look 
up  to.  It  is  doubtful  whether  she  could  have  shown  ade 
quate  cause  either,  always  supposing  that  she  would  have 
been  willing  to  acknowledge  the  fact. 

Dick  was  the  type  of  the  nice  English  boy.  Sally  had 
never  seen  an  English  boy  or  an  English  man  in  her  whole 
life;  but  that  did  not  prevent  her  from  forming  an  ideal  of 
the  type,  to  which  Dick  measured  up  in  every  particular. 
He  had  light  hair  and  that  curious  brunette  coloring  that 
sometimes  goes  with  it;  he  was  invariably  pleasant  and 
polite  and  deliberate  in  his  speech;  and  he  was  generally 
well  dressed.  Sally  was  particular  about  that,  almost 
finicky.  If  Dick  had  shown  a  tendency  to  overdressing  — 
but  he  did  n't.  He  had  an  air  of  distinction.  He  also  had  a 
sister,  Emily,  who  was  in  the  second  class  at  school.  Sally 
thought  that  Emily  Torrington  was  the  most  beautiful  girl 
she  had  ever  seen.  She  could  not  imagine  any  girl  more 
beautiful. 

Everett  was  a  great  contrast  to  Dick  in  every  respect. 
He  had  no  sister.  Everett  was  an  only  child  and  his  family 
was  very  rich,  so  that  he  was  in  great  danger  of  being  spoiled. 
Not  that  it  made  any  difference  to  Sally  whether  he  was 
rich  or  not.  And  Everett  was  handsome,  in  quite  a  different 
way  from  Dick,  and  brilliant  and  dashing.  In  short,  he  was 
fascinating.  Many  others  than  Sally  had  found  him  so.  It 
was  quite  likely  that  a  woman  would  be  more  permanently 
happy  and  contented  with  Dick  than  with  Everett.  I  do 
not  mean  to  imply  that  Sally  had  ever  indulged  in  any  such 
reflection.  She  may  have  and  she  may  not  have;  but  he 
fascinated  her,  as  he  had  fascinated  those  others  of  whom  I 
spoke.  He  did  n't  know  it.  Everett  Morton  had  never 
spoken  to  Sally.  He  had  never  even  noticed  her.  Dick  had 
in  his  good-natured,  pleasant  way,  but  Dick  was  always 
polite.  Everett  was  not  —  always. 


124  CONCERNING  SALLY 

So  Sally's  heart  was  beating  a  little  rapidly  when  she 
pushed  through  the  break  in  the  fence.  But  she  had  been 
running,  you  remember,  for  a  square  and  a  half. 

The  big  kite  was  up  on  end,  with  one  of  the  smaller  boys 
holding  it.  It  was  a  huge  kite,  nearly  twice  the  height  of  the 
boy  that  held  it  and  the  top  of  it  was  a  good  foot  above 
Everett's  head  as  he  stood  in  front  of  it;  so  big  that  they 
had  a  rope  to  fly  it  with,  and  the  end  of  the  rope  was  tied 
around  Everett's  waist.  The  smaller  boys,  of  course,  were 
clustered  about  the  kite,  the  Carlings  among  them.  Then 
Dick  and  Everett  took  the  rope  in  their  hands,  called  to  the 
boy  to  let  go,  and  began  to  run ;  and  the  kite  rose,  evenly  at 
first,  then  twitching  viciously  from  side  to  side.  Then  it 
hesitated  for  an  instant,  as  the  tail,  dragging  on  the  ground, 
caught  around  the  legs  of  one  of  the  Carlings.  Sally  had  not 
yet  become  able  to  tell  them  apart,  at  any  distance.  She 
saw  him  struggle,  go  down  with  his  feet  in  the  air  and  with 
the  tail  of  the  kite  still  wrapped  around  them.  She  saw  the 
other  twin  precipitate  himself  upon  the  fallen  one,  try 
vainly  to  undo  the  tail,  then  busy  himself  with  one  of  his 
brother's  shoes.  The  kite  suddenly  soared,  bearing  aloft, 
tied  firmly  into  its  tail,  a  shoe. 

The  twins  remained  upon  the  ground,  one  pounding  the 
other.  Sally  thought  that  the  pounded  one  had  already  had 
punishment  enough  and  she  ran  toward  them. 

"You  j — jay!"  cried  the  upper  twin  to  the  under  twin, 
as  she  came  near.  "You  b — b — bum,  you!  D — don't  you 
kn — know  any  b — b — better  'n  t — to  g — get  c — c — caught 
th— that  way  ?  You  — ' ' 

"Sh — sh — shut  up,"  yelled  the  under  twin,  struggling 
wildly,  "y — y — you  r — r — rotten  old  b — beat!  L — 1 — 
lemmeup!" 

"Here,"  said  Sally,  imperatively,  "let  him  up.  Stop 
pounding  him." 

Harry  stopped  his  pounding  of  Horry  and  both  of  the 
twins  looked  up,  Harry  with  a  sheepish  grin  and  Horry  with 
an  expression  of  the  most  profound  relief. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  125 

"S— S — Sally!"  they  began,  in  unison.  "Oh,  I  ain't 
h — h — hurtin'  'im,"  continued  Harry.  "  Oh,  h — h — he 
ain't  h — h — hurtin'  m — me,"  said  Horry. 

Sally  laughed.  "Well,"  she  said,  "you'll  get  up."  She 
took  Harry  by  the  shoulder.  "It's  positively  disgraceful 
the  way  you  brothers  fight." 

Harry  got  up  slowly.  "B — b — brothers  always  f — f — 
fight,"  he  said  apologetically,  "if  th — th — they're  an — an — 
any — wh — where  ne — n — near  th — the  s — s — same  s — size. 
H — H — Horry  'n-n'  I  are  j — just  th — the  s — s — same 
s — s — size.  B — b — but  I  n — n — never  h — hurt  'im,"  he 
added  magnanimously. 

Horry  had  got  up,  and  was  standing  on  one  leg,  with  his 
stockinged  foot  against  his  other  knee.  He  made  Sally 
think  of  a  belligerent  stork. 

"Y — yer  c — c — couldn't,  th — that's  wh — why,"  he 
yelled.  Then,  sticking  his  head  forward  until  his  face  was 
almost  touching  his  brother's,  he  vented  his  scorn  in  a  single 
yell.  "Y— a— ah!" 

This  was  too  much  for  Harry's  imitation  of  goodness, 
and  he  gave  chase  at  once.  Horry,  handicapped  by  the  loss 
of  one  shoe,  which  was  now  almost  out  of  sight,  had  made 
but  two  jumps  when  Harry  caught  him.  They  clinched  and 
went  down  in  a  heap.  Sally  could  n't  tell  whether  the 
stockinged  foot  belonged  to  the  under  or  the  upper  twin. 
She  laughed  again.  They  seemed  to  prefer  to  fight  anyway, 
so  why  not  let  them? 

The  kite  was  now  up  as  far  as  it  could  go.  The  rope  was 
all  out,  and  Everett  was  holding  to  a  post  of  the  fence. 
Dick  came  running  over  the  field  toward  the  prostrate  twins. 

"Here,  you  twins!"  he  called.  "Stop  your  fighting. 
Get  up!" 

He  seized  the  upper  twin,  jerked  him  to  his  feet  and  gave 
him  a  shake.  It  proved  to  be  Horry. 

"L— 1— lemme  '1—1— lone!"  cried  Horry.  "I  ain't  d— 
doin'  an — an — yth — thing  to  y — you.  Wh — wh — where 's 
m — m — my  sh — shoe?  G — g — gimme  m — my  sh — shoe." 


126  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Harry  scrambled  to  his  feet.  "  Y — you  1 — 1 — let  m — m — 
my  b — brother  al — 1 — lone,  D — Dick.  P — pitch  in,  H — H — 
Horry." 

Accordingly  they  both  pitched  in.  Dick  had  his  hands 
full  for  a  minute.  Sally  ran  up. 

"Everett  is  calling  you." 

"Pugnacious  little  beggars!"  said  Dick. 

He  knocked  their  heads  together,  gently,  and  ran  off, 
leaving  the  twins  with  blazing  eyes,  looking  after  him.  They 
began  to  splutter. 

"It's  all  entirely  your  own  fault,"  Sally  began  hastily, 
"and  you  know  it.  Look  at  the  kite." 

The  kite  was  pitching  in  the  gusty  wind.  The  tail  was  not 
long  enough  nor  the  rope  either.  Occasionally  it  would  dive 
head  down,  but  Everett  always  managed  to  check  it,  and 
it  rose  again,  twitching  from  side  to  side. 

"M — m — my  sh — shoe!"  Horry  cried,  after  one  of  the 
dives.  He  started  off  over  the  field.  "I'm  g — g — goin' 
t — to  g — g — get  it." 

The  kite  dived  again,  straight  down.  Horry  was  almost 
under  it,  the  sight  of  his  shoe,  not  more  than  a  hundred  feet 
above  his  head,  making  him  reckless  —  if  anything  was 
needed  to  make  him  so. 

"Horry!"  Sally  called  anxiously.  "Come  away.  You'll 
get  hurt." 

But  he  showed  no  disposition  to  come  away.  He  followed 
the  kite,  keeping  just  under  it,  his  arms  upraised.  Sally  ran 
towards  him;  and  at  that  moment  Everett  succeeded  in 
checking  the  downward  dive  of  the  great  kite,  which  rose 
slowly,  tugging  and  twitching  at  its  rope  viciously.  It  was 
like  a  live  thing  compelled  to  go  up  against  its  will  and  de 
termined  to  come  down.  It  was  pretty  low  now  and  it 
seemed  likely  that  the  kite  would  have  its  way. 

Dick  seemed  to  think  so.  "It's  no  use,  Ev,"  he  said. 
"Better  let  it  down  easy  and  we'll  put  on  more  bal 
last." 

Everett  gritted  his  teeth  and  made  no  reply.   If  any  kite 


CONCERNING  SALLY  127 

was  to  get  the  better  of  him,  it  would  have  to  fight  for  it. 
He  would  n't  give  in. 

"You'll  have  it  smashed  up,"  Dick  warned  him  quietly. 

As  he  spoke,  the  kite  gave  two  violent  pitches  and  dived 
once  more.  Even  Everett  could  not  stop  it  and  it  came  down 
like  lightning,  straight  at  Horry  Carling.  Sally  saw  it  and  so 
did  Horry.  Horry  seemed  to  be  paralyzed;  and  Sally  pre 
cipitated  herself  upon  him,  bearing  him  to  the  ground,  but 
a  little  away  from  the  kite.  The  next  instant  the  heavy 
kite  struck  the  ground  with  great  force  and  two  of  its 
sticks  broke.  It  had  struck  Sally  on  her  outstretched  left 
foot  and  may  have  broken  something  more  than  kite  sticks. 

The  broken  kite  fell  over  upon  Sally  and  Horry.  Horry 
began  to  struggle. 

"L — 1 — lemme  g — g — get  out,"  he  yelled. 

"Keep  still!"  said  Sally.  "I'll  get  up  and  then  — oh!" 
Sally  was  already  part  way  up.  There  was  a  terrible  pain 
in  her  left  leg.  She  felt  dizzy.  "  I— I  think— I  '11  lie  down/' 
she  murmured;  and  she  fainted. 

Sally  opened  her  eyes  presently,  and  smiled  vaguely.  The 
kite  was  gone,  she  was  lying  upon  her  back  and  Everett 
and  Dick  were  bending  over  her,  while  the  Carlings  and  the 
other  small  boys  gazed  in  awe-struck  silence. 

"Where's  the  kite?"  Sally  asked  weakly.  She  was  not 
quite  herself  yet. 

"Never  mind  about  the  kite,  Sally,"  Dick  answered;  "it's 
broken  and  I'm  glad  of  it.  Where  did  it  hit  you?" 

"I've  a  pain  in  my  left  leg,"  said  Sally.  "It's  a  pretty 
hard  pain." 

Her  lips  were  white  as  she  spoke,  and  she  pressed  them 
together  to  stop  their  quivering.  She  did  not  mean  to  cry. 

"We'll  carry  you  in,"  said  Dick. 

So  he  and  Everett  made  a  chair  by  crossing  their  hands, 
each  hand  clasping  one  of  the  other  boy's.  Then  they 
stooped  down  and  Sally  managed  to  sit  upon  their  clasped 
hands.  It  was  the  first  time  that  she  had  seen  this  de 
vice. 


128  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  shall  fall  off,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  mind  if  I 
hold  on  to  you?" 

Dick  laughed  quietly.  "Put  your  arms  round  our  necks 
and  you  won't  fall.  It's  as  easy  as  a  cradle." 

Sally's  color  was  quite  restored  and  she  was  conscious  of 
no  pain  as  she  made  a  triumphal  progress  along  Box  Elder 
Street  with  one  arm  about  Dick's  neck  and  the  other  about 
Everett's.  The  Carling  twins  followed  closely,  Horry  absent- 
mindedly  carrying  his  shoe  in  his  hand,  and  the  other  boys 
came  after. 

As  Dick  and  Everett  started  to  carry  her  upstairs,  it  was 
the  happiest  moment  that  Sally  had  ever  known. 


CHAPTER   III 

COUSIN  PATTY  was  in  Sally's  room.   Cousin  Patty  was 
not,  as  it  chanced,  fully  dressed. 
"Well,  Sally,"  she  said,  going  towards  the  door,  "I 
must  go.   It's  almost  tjme  for  the  doctor."   She  paused  an 
instant,  then  went  on  plaintively.    "He  hasn't  been  here, 
except  professionally,  for  a  long  time  —  some  years.    But 
there  was  a  time  when  he  came  often."  Miss  Hazen  sighed 
involuntarily. 

The  sigh  was  long  and  quivering  and  it  interested  Sally. 
"Oh,  Cousin  Patty,"  she  said  eagerly,  "will  you  tell  me 
about  it  —  about  that  time,  I  mean?" 

Cousin  Patty  looked  at  Sally  with  the  soft  light  of  remi 
niscence  in  her  eyes.  "Oh,  well,"  she  replied,  with  affected 
carelessness  and  laughing  lightly,  "perhaps  I  will,  if  you  are 
really  interested  to  hear  about  it.  Now  I  must  go,  but  I  '11 
be  back  in  a  few  minutes." 

She  went  out  and  shut  the  door ;  and  Sally  heard  a 
muffled  shriek  and  Cousin  Patty's  door  slammed.  An  in 
stant  later,  her  own  door  opened  and  Doctor  Beatty  ap 
peared.  He  was  smiling. 

"Nearly  scared  Patty  into  a  fit,"  he  said.  "She  ought  to 
know  my  habits  by  this  time." 

Miss  Patty  soon  came  in  again,  clothed  but  not  quite  in 
her  right  mind.  Her  color  was  still  high  and  she  seemed  a 
little  flustered.  Doctor  Beatty  did  not  turn  around. 

"Oh,  there  you  are,  Patty,"  he  said.  "I  won't  look,  you 
know,  until  you  give  the  word." 

"How  absurd!"  Miss  Patty  exclaimed.  She  meant  to 
be  very  dignified,  but  she  was  very  nearly  smiling.  "But 
that  is  to  be  expected.  You  always  were  absurd." 

The  doctor's  visit  was  a  long  one;  and,  when  it  was  done, 
Miss  Patty  went  to  the  door  with  him. 


130  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"It  has  seemed  quite  like  old  times,"  she  said  softly. 

For  a  moment  the  doctor  did  not  know  what  she  was 
talking  about.  "What?"  he  asked  blankly.  "Oh,  yes,  it 
has,  more  or  less,  has  n't  it?  Good-bye,  Patty.  Keep  your 
liver  on  the  job.  You're  looking  a  little  bit  yellow." 

There  were  tears  in  Miss  Patty's  eyes  when  she  went  back 
to  sit  with  Sally. 

"Doctor  Beatty,"  she  remarked  after  a  short  silence,  "is 
not  what  he  was  in  the  old  days.  He  seems  to  have  coars 
ened." 

Sally  did  not  know  what  reply  to  make,  so  she  made 
none. 

"He  never  used  to  say  anything  about  my — my  liver," 
resumed  Miss  Patty,  "when  he  called.  He  was  practising 
then,  too.  It  is  painful  to  me  to  see  such  a  change  in  a  man 
like  him.  Now,  in  the  old  days,  when  he  used  to  be  here  a 
great  deal,  —  a  very  great  deal,  Sally,  —  he  was  not  at  all 
like  that."  And  Miss  Patty  sighed. 

Just  then  the  maid  came  up  to  announce  the  Carlings. 

"An',  Miss  Patty,"  she  continued  significantly,  "  Charlie 's 
in  the  kitchen." 

"Oh,  is  he?  I  '11  come  right  down  and  get  him."  The  maid 
withdrew.  "The  dear  little  boy!"  said  Miss  Patty.  " I  sup 
pose  he 's  eating  what  he  ought  not  to.  I  'd  like  to  let  him 
have  anything  he  wants,  but  I  know  it  would  n't  be  good 
for  him." 

She  rose  rather  hastily,  but  paused  with  her  hand  on  the 
door.  "Of  course,  Sally,"  she  said  with  a  short  little  laugh, 
"you  are  not  to  think  that  I  had  any  —  Oh,  here  are  the 
twins,  Sally." 

Miss  Patty  fled  and  the  Carlings  entered. 

"H — h — hello,  Sally,"  they  cried.  "H — h — how's  your 
1—1— leg?" 

Sally  laughed.  "It's  my  foot,  not  my  leg,  and  it  does  n't 
hurt  me  at  all,  hardly." 

This  appeared  to  upset  the  concerted  programme  of  the 
twins. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  131 

"B — but  y — you  s — s — said  your  1 — 1 — leg  hurt,"  ob 
jected  Harry. 

"Well,  so  it  did,"  Sally  replied;  "but  it's  my  foot  that's 
broken." 

"Your  f — f — foot  b — b — broken!"  said  Horry  in  aston 
ishment.  "H — h — how  c — can  a  f — f — foot  b — be  b — b — 
broken?  D — d — does  it  w — work  ar — r — round?" 

"Not  now,  for  it's  all  done  up  stiff  in  bandages." 

Horry  was  not  allowed  to  pursue  his  inquiries,  for  the 
maid  was  at  the  door  again,  announcing  Richard  Torring- 
ton.  Sally  sat  up  straighter,  and  her  cheeks  were  flushed 
and  her  eyes  rather  bright.  The  twins  eyed  her  with 
suspicion. 

As  they  passed  down  the  broad  stairs  Harry  nudged 
Horry  again. 

"S— S— S— al— 1— ly's  s— stuck  on  D— D— Dick,"  he 
whispered. 

"S — s — sing  it,"  said  Horry,  chuckling. 

"W — w — won't  d — do  it,"  replied  Harry  indignantly. 
His  indignation  rose  at  every  step.  "Y — you  r — r — rotten 
b — bum,  y — you !  W — w — wanted  t — to  m — m — make  m — 
me  m — m — make  a  f — f — ' '  The  front  door  banged  behind 
the  twins,  and  Sally  heard  no  more. 

She  had  heard  Harry's  whispered  remark  and  had  glanced 
fearfully  at  Dick.  He  seemed  unconscious,  and  a  great  joy 
surged  in  Sally's  heart. 

The  first  morning  that  Sally  came  downstairs  —  on 
crutches  —  she  managed  her  crutches  unskillfully  and  fell 
half  the  flight.  Uncle  John  and  Cousin  Patty,  followed 
closely  by  Charlie,  hurried  to  her.  Uncle  John  was  the  most 
alarmed.  He  stooped  and  would  have  raised  her  head,  but 
Sally  saved  him  that  trouble  and  smiled  at  him. 

"I'm  not  hurt  one  mite,  "she  said.  She  was  not.  "Wasn't 
I  lucky?" 

He  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  was  afraid,"  he  replied.  "I'm  thankful  that  you're 
not.  Are  you  sure,  Sally?"  he  asked  anxiously. 


132  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Oh,  yes,  I  'm  sure."  And,  to  convince  him,  Sally  jumped 
up,  nimbly,  and  hopped  about  on  one  foot. 

Uncle  John  smiled.  "  It  is  n't  very  wise  to  try  such  experi 
ments.  Now,  you  're  to  sit  beside  me  at  the  table,  hereafter. 
We  can't  risk  that  foot,  for  it  would  be  more  of  a  misfortune 
to  our  Sally  and  to  us  if  anything  serious  happened  to  it 
than  she  realizes." 

Sally  had  noted  the  way  he  spoke  of  "our  Sally";  it  was 
affectionate,  genuinely  so.  There  could  not  be  the  least 
doubt  about  it. 

"Now,"  he  continued,  "you  will  please  to  take  my  arm." 
"Oh,  father,"  remonstrated  Miss  Patty,  "is  it  safe?" 
"Quite  safe,  Patty,"  he  returned  quietly,  "and  I  wish  it." 
It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  if  Sally  squeezed  his  arm  a 
little.    She  could  not  say  what  she  wanted  to,  right  there 
before  Cousin  Patty  and  Charlie.   It  is  hard  to  see  why  she 
could  n't,  but  Uncle  John  seemed  to  understand ;  and  they 
walked  solemnly  in  to  breakfast,  Sally  wielding  one  crutch 
and  Uncle  John  the  other. 

"We're  two  old  cripples,  Sally,"  said  he. 


CHAPTER   IV 

SALLY  wrote  Fox  about  it  all,  of  course.  There  would 
have  been  no  excuse  for  her  if  she  had  not;  and  she 
wrote  Henrietta,  too,  although  she  had  some  difficulty 
in  making  the  two  letters  cover  the  same  ground  without 
saying  the  same  thing.  This  was  one  of  the  times  when 
Sally's  letters  to  Henrietta  came  in  bunches.  She  alluded 
to  her  accident  in  one  of  her  letters  to  Doctor  Galen,  and  he 
answered  it  almost  immediately,  giving  her  four  pages  of 
excellent  advice  and  ending  by  taking  it  all  back. 

"Fox  tells  me,"  he  wrote,  "that  you  have  Meriwether 
Beatty  looking  after  you.  In  that  case  please  consider  all 
this  unsaid.  I  know  something  of  Doctor  Beatty  and  I  am 
sure  you  could  n't  be  in  better  hands  —  unless  in  the  hands 
of  Doctor  Fox  Sanderson.  Have  you  heard  that  Fox  has 
decided  to  be  a  doctor  and  that  he  is  studying  with  me 
besides  taking  his  course  in  the  medical  school?" 

No,  Sally  had  not  heard  it.  Fox  was  strangely  reticent 
about  himself.  He  had  not  mentioned,  even,  that  he  had 
found  a  tenant  for  their  house ;  a  tenant  who  would  respect 
all  of  Sally's  little  affections  —  or  great  affections,  if  you 
prefer  —  for  trees  from  which  the  gynesaurus  had  been 
wont  to  gaze  out  over  the  coal  swamps,  ages  ago;  a  tenant 
who,  strangely  enough,  was  named  Sanderson.  She  learned 
this  piece  of  news,  or  inferred  it,  from  one  of  Henrietta's 
letters.  Henrietta  had  supposed  that  Sally  knew  it  already. 

Sally  was  feeling  very  tenderly  affectionate  towards  Fox 
over  this  news,  and  very  much  elated  over  the  doctor's 
announcement,  for  it  could  hardly  fail  to  be  evident  what 
prosperity  for  Fox  was  implied  in  Doctor  Galen's  great  good 
will.  She  wrote  to  Fox  at  once,  congratulating  him.  , 

"Everybody  here  seems  to  think  that  Doctor  Galen  is  It, 
and  so  do  I,"  she  went  on.  "I  read  Doctor  Beatty  what 


134  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Doctor  Galen  said  about  him,  and  you  ought  to  have  seen 
him.  He  looked  pleased  as  he  could  be  and  he  smiled  —  he 
tried  not  to  —  and  he  positively  blushed.  Then  he  began 
to  talk  about  my  foot,  but  my  foot  is  not  worth  talking 
about  now.  It  is  almost  well.  I  go  about  quite  easily  with 
my  crutches  and  Uncle  John  takes  me  for  a  walk  every 
morning,  before  he  goes  downtown.  It  makes  him  late  in 
getting  down,  but  he  does  n't  seem  to  mind.  Uncle  John 
and  I  have  got  quite  fond  of  each  other.  Really,  Fox,  Uncle 
John  is  the  best  person  here.  He  is  so  kind  and  thoughtful 
and,  Fox,  so  polite !  His  politeness  seems  to  be  a  part  of  him. 
Yes,  I  am  very  fond  of  Uncle  John.  Of  course,  I  am  fond 
of  Cousin  Patty,  too,  but  I  like  Uncle  John  more. 

"And  there  are  other  ways  I  have  of  going  out.  Dick 
Torrington  has  come  in  every  afternoon  since  I  hurt  my 
foot,  and,  now  that  I  can  get  about  so  well,  he  takes  me  for 
a  walk.  It's  very  slow  business  for  him,  of  course,  but  he 
does  n't  seem  to  mind,  either.  It's  astonishing  how  many 
people  don't  seem  to  mind.  Dick  is  very  nice  and  kind  and 
satisfying.  He  reminds  me  of  you  in  many  ways.  He  always 
treats  me  like  a  person,  —  as  if  I  were  as  old  as  he  is,  —  not 
as  if  I  was  only  a  little  girl  and  of  no  consequence,  as  Everett 
Morton  seems  to  think.  Dick  seems  to  like  to  take  me  out. 
He  is  going  to  take  his  examinations  for  Harvard  this  June, 
and  he  is  a  little  afraid  he  won't  pass.  He  failed  in  a  good 
many  of  his  preliminaries  —  is  that  spelled  right?  —  last 
year.  He  is  n't  very  quick  at  his  studies.  He  says  so  him 
self,  so  he  knows  it.  I  hope  he  will  pass  and  I  wish  I  could 
help  him.  Uncle  John  says  Dick's  all  right.  Uncle  John 
takes  me  to  walk  again  when  he  gets  back,  so  that  I  have 
walking  enough  for  a  little  girl  with  crutches.  I  shan't  need 
them  very  much  longer,  but  Doctor  Beatty  wants  me  to  be 
careful  and  not  to  climb  trees  for  quite  a  while.  There 
are  n't  any  good  trees  here. 

"I  hope  you  know,  Fox,  that  I  am  very  glad  you  and 
Henrietta  are  living  in  our  house  and  that  I  appreciate  it. 
Write  me  about  all  the  old  places,  will  you?" 


CONCERNING  SALLY  135 

Fox  smiled  with  amusement  at  himself  to  find  that  he 
felt  a  distinct  pang  at  Sally's  account  of  Dick.  If  Dick  was 
good  to  her  there  was  no  reason  in  the  world  why  he  should 
not  take  her  walking  as  much  as  he  would.  But  he,  Fox, 
missed  her  companionship.  Sally  was  one  to  be  missed. 

Dick  did  not  succeed  very  well  with  his  examinations. 
He  had  as  many  conditions  as  it  is  permitted  to  a  boy  to 
have,  and  he  had  to  study  hard  all  that  summer.  So  the 
walks  with  Dick  became  less  and  less  frequent  until  they 
ceased  altogether.  Dick  is  not  to  be  blamed.  Sally  was  only 
twelve  and  he  could  not  have  known  how  much  his  daily 
companionship  meant  to  her.  If  he  had  known,  he  would 
have  managed,  out  of  the  goodness  of  his  heart,  to  see  her 
of tener  than  once  a  week.  Dick  was  the  only  intimate  friend 
that  Sally  had. 

Uncle  John  did  not  desert  her  merely  because  Dick  had 
done  so.  They  became  almost  inseparable ;  so  much  so  that 
old  Cap'n  Forsyth,  chancing  to  meet  Mr.  Hazen  alone,  one 
afternoon,  cried  out  in  astonishment. 

"Hello,  John!"  he  cried  in  his  great  bluff  voice,  a  voice 
that  had  been  heard,  often,  above  the  roaring  of  the  wind 
in  the  rigging  and  the  hissing  of  the  seas.  "Hello,  John! 
Where's  the  other  one?  Anything  the  matter  with  her?" 

Uncle  John  smiled  quietly.  "  I  hope  not,  Stephen.  I  sin 
cerely  hope  not.  I  have  n't  been  home  yet,  or  you  would  n't 
find  me  alone,  I  trust." 

"I  believe  you're  in  love,  John,"  Cap'n  Forsyth  cried 
again.  He  might  have  been  heard  a  block  away. 

The  smile  had  not  left  Mr.  Hazen 's  face.  "  I  believe  I  am, 
Stephen.  I  believe  I  am." 

"She's  worth  it,  is  she?"  roared  Cap'n  Forsyth. 

Mr.  Hazen  nodded.   "She's  worth  it,  Stephen." 

"  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it,  John,"  Cap'n  Forsyth  shouted.  No 
doubt  he  thought  he  was  whispering.  "It's  getting  to  be  as 
common  a  sight  —  you  and  Sally  —  as  those  Carling  nui 
sances.  And  Patty's  just  as  bad  with  that  little  boy  brother 
of  hers.  I  hope  he's  worth  it,  too.  Good-bye,  John." 


i36  CONCERNING  SALLY 

There  was  some  doubt  in  Uncle  John's  mind  as  to  Charlie's 
being  worth  it.  He  and  Patty  were  inseparable,  too,  and 
Charlie  was  not  improved.  He  was  in  imminent  danger  of 
being  spoiled,  if  the  mischief  was  not  already  done.  Uncle 
John  sighed  and  turned  homeward.  He  found  Sally  sitting 
on  the  front  steps,  waiting  for  him. 

After  Dick  went,  in  the  fall,  Sally  had  nothing  to  do  but 
to  try  to  play  by  herself  and  devote  herself  to  her  studies 
and  miss  Dick.  She  found  that  she  missed  him  almost  as 
much  as  she  had  missed  Fox.  As  for  playing  by  herself,  she 
had  had  that  to  do  nearly  all  summer;  for,  although  she 
had  tried,  conscientiously,  she  could  not  feel  any  interest 
in  the  other  girls  of  her  own  age.  They  were  uninteresting, 
somehow.  Uncle  John  was  better,  and  she  got  into  the 
habit  of  going  down  to  his  office  in  the  afternoons  and  com 
ing  home  with  him.  Miss  Patty  was  very  glad  to  have  her 
do  it.  It  relieved  her  mind;  in  case,  you  know,  he  should 
stumble  or  slip  or  —  or  anything  else  should  happen.  She 
felt  that  Sally  was  to  be  relied  upon,  and  so  she  was;  but 
Miss  Patty  was  putting  a  rather  grave  responsibility  upon 
her  and  she  was  a  little  too  lonely.  It  is  not  good  for  little 
girls  to  be  lonely.  She  was  unaware  of  the  responsibility. 

Sally's  school  was  a  diversion.  Diversion  seems  to  be  the 
right  word.  There  were  about  seventy  scholars  in  the  school ; 
and,  with  six  classes,  that  makes  about  a  dozen  scholars 
to  a  class,  more  or  less.  The  lower  classes  had  more  and  the 
upper  classes,  by  natural  processes  of  elimination,  had  less. 
Sally's  class  had  fourteen;  and  Sally  had  no  trouble  at  all  in 
standing  at  the  head  of  a  class  of  fourteen.  It  had  made 
Dick  envious  —  no,  not  envious,  for  Dick  was  never  that; 
but  it  was  a  constant  wonder  to  him  that  any  one  should 
be  able  to  stand  first  in  fourteen  with  so  little  work. 

In  the  great  schoolroom,  where  all  the  scholars  sat  when 
they  had  no  classes  to  go  to,  the  boys  sat  on  one  side  and 
the  girls  sat  on  the  other.  They  were  given  seats  according 
to  their  rank,  the  first  class  at  the  back  of  the  room  and  the 


CONCERNING  SALLY  137 

sixth  class  right  under  the  eye  of  the  principal,  almost  under 
his  very  hand.  In  general,  this  was  a  good  arrangement. 
It  happened,  however,  that  the  worst  behavior  was  not  in 
the  lowest  class,  but  in  the  fourth,  which  was  Sally's  class. 
So  Sally,  from  her  seat  in  the  fourth  row  from  the  front,  saw 
Eugene  Spencer,  commonly  called  "Jane,"  suddenly  haled 
from  his  seat  at  her  side  —  Sally  sat  next  to  the  boys  and 
Jane  next  to  the  girls —  and,  after  a  severe  lecture,  assigned 
a  desk  within  touch  of  the  desk  of  the  principal,  Mr.  Mac- 
Dalie. 

Jane  was  a  boy  of  immaculate  and  ladylike  appearance. 
He  listened  respectfully  to  the  lecture  and  received  the 
assignment  of  the  desk  with  a  bow  of  thanks ;  all  of  which 
behavior  was,  in  itself,  unobjectionable.  Jane  had  a  knack 
at  that.  But  it  drove  the  principal,  who  was  a  man  of 
irascible  temper,  into  a  white-hot  rage,  which  Jane  respect 
fully  sat  through,  apparently  undisturbed.  A  suppressed 
excitement  ran  along  the  rows  of  boys,  who  were  as  if  on 
tiptoe  with  expectation  of  what  might  happen.  Sally,  her 
self,  was  trembling,  she  found;  for  it  seemed,  for  a  few 
minutes,  as  though  the  principal  would  do  Jane  bodily  harm. 
But  nothing  happened.  The  white-hot  rage  cooled  quickly, 
as  such  rages  do ;  and  the  principal  smiled  with  amusement, 
changing  in  a  moment,  as  such  men  change,  and  went  on 
with  his  hearing  of  the  class  in  Civil  Government. 

Sally  was  very  glad  that  Jane  was  gone  from  his  seat 
beside  her,  for  he  had  almost  convulsed  her  by  his  pranks 
on  countless  occasions  and  had  very  nearly  made  her  dis 
grace  herself  by  laughing  aloud.  She  had  fears,  however, 
still ;  for  Jane's  new  desk  was  between  the  principal  and  the 
classes  that  he  was  hearing,  and  was  on  the  floor,  while  the 
principal's  desk  was  on  the  platform.  Jane,  therefore,  was, 
in  a  measure,  concealed  from  the  view  of  the  astute  Mac- 
Dalie,  but  in  full  view  of  the  class,  which  occupied  benches 
a  few  feet  behind  him.  Moreover,  the  desks  on  either  side 
of  Jane's  —  there  were  three  of  them  in  a  row,  of  which 
Jane  occupied  the  middle  one  —  were  occupied,  respectively, 


138  CONCERNING  SALLY 

by  the  Carlings.  The  Carlings  always  occupied  those  desks. 
They  had  got  to  feeling  a  sort  of  proprietorship  in  them. 
Jane,  however,  knew  too  much  to  continue  his  mischief  on 
that  day.  He  was  filled  to  the  brim  with  it,  that  was  all, 
and  it  was  only  a  question  how  long  before  it  would  run 
over. 

Sally  was  glad  when  the  bell  called  her  to  a  class  down 
stairs;  and  she  sat  as  if  in  a  trance  and  watched  Jane 
Spencer  gravely  fishing  in  the  aquarium  tank  with  a  bent 
pin  on  the  end  of  a  thread.  He  kept  on  fishing  all  through 
the  class  hour,  unhindered.  The  single  little  fish  in  the 
tank  tugged  at  the  pin  occasionally,  without  result;  and, 
when  the  bell  sounded  again,  Jane  folded  up  his  line  and 
put  it  in  his  book. 

"No  luck,"  he  observed,  bowing  to  the  teacher. 

"Too  bad!"  said  the  teacher  sympathetically. 

"Yes,  isn't  it?"  said  Jane;  and  he  withdrew  in  good 
order,  leaving  the  teacher  smiling  to  himself.  What  was  he 
smiling  at,  I  wonder? 

Jane  never  descended  to  such  behavior  as  sitting  with  his 
feet  in  his  desk,  as  Oliver  Pilcher  did.  No  doubt  he  considered 
it  undignified  and  generally  bad  form,  which  unquestion 
ably  it  was.  Moreover  he  would  thereby  run  the  risk  of 
getting  caught  in  a  situation  which  he  regarded  as  unpro 
fessional.  Oliver  Pilcher  was  caught  several  times,  for  it 
is  somewhat  difficult  to  get  one's  feet  out  of  one's  desk  as 
quickly  as  is  necessary  to  avoid  that  humiliation.  If  you  do 
not  believe  it,  try  it. 

Jane  may  have  tried  it  or  he  may  not.  He  preferred  a 
different  sort  of  misbehavior;  it  was  especial  balm  to  his 
soul  to  be  thought  to  be  misbehaving  and  then  to  prove 
that  he  was  not,  for  that  was  a  joke  on  the  teacher  which 
was  apt,  for  reasons  unknown,  to  make  him  hopping  mad, 
and  Jane's  end  seemed  to  have  been  attained  when  he  had 
made  the  teacher  hopping  mad.  He  was  apt  to  appear  to 
be  very  inattentive  in  class,  thinking  —  but  I  do  not  know 
what  he  was  thinking.  Even  Mr.  MacDalie  was  deceived 


CONCERNING  SALLY  139 

occasionally.  Jane  would  be  sitting,  looking  out  of  the  win 
dow,  perhaps,  with  his  book  face  down  beside  him,  while  the 
Latin  translation  dragged  by  painful  jerks  along  the  other 
end  of  the  class.  Mr.  MacDalie  would  have  noted  Jane's 
attitude,  as  he  noted  everything,  and  would  call  upon  him 
suddenly  and,  as  he  supposed,  unexpectedly.  And  Jane 
would  take  up  his  book,  deliberately,  and,  rising,  begin  at 
the  very  word  and  give  a  beautiful  and  fluent  translation 
until  he  was  stopped.  Sally  saw  that  happen  four  times  that 
half-year. 

The  last  time,  the  principal  smiled  broadly  and  lowered 
his  book. 

"Well,  Eugene,"  he  said,  —  he  almost  called  him  "Jane," 
—  "you  fooled  me  nicely.  That  translation  was  very  nearly 
perfect." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  Jane  replied  gravely;  and  he  sat  down 
and  placed  his  book,  face  down  again,  upon  the  bench 
beside  him  and  resumed  his  gazing  out  of  the  window. 

One  day  during  Dick's  Christmas  vacation  there  was  a 
great  sleighing  party.  There  was  no  reason  in  the  world 
why  Sally  should  have  expected  to  be  asked  or  wanted  to  be. 
She  told  herself  so,  many  times;  but  she  was  disappointed, 
grievously.  Mr.  Hazen  saw  it,  —  any  one  could  see  it 
plainly,  —  and,  because  he  could  not  bear  that  Sally  should 
feel  so,  he  asked  her  if  she  would  n't  oblige  him  by  going 
sleighing  with  him.  And  because  she  could  n't  bear  to  dis 
appoint  Uncle  John,  Sally  went.  She  was  grateful  to  him, 
too.  So  it  happened  that  two  people,  who  would  have 
much  preferred  going  anywhere  on  their  own  feet,  were 
wrapped  in  a  buffalo  robe,  —  one  of  the  last  of  them ;  a  robe 
of  which  Mr.  Hazen  was  very  proud,  —  and,  thus  protected 
against  the  cold,  were  being  drawn  easily  behind  the  stout 
horse. 

At  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  Sally  despised  sleighing  only 
a  degree  less  than  she  despised  driving  in  a  carriage.  She 
thought  she  should  like  riding,  but  of  riding  a  horse  she 
knew  nothing.  She  had  never  in  her  life  been  on  a  horse's 


i4o  CONCERNING  SALLY 

back.  As  for  sleighing,  she  thought,  as  they  drove  along, 
that  they  might  as  well  be  in  her  room,  sitting  in  a  seat  that 
was  not  wide  enough  for  two,  with  a  buffalo  robe  tucked 
around  their  knees.  With  the  window  wide  open  and  bells 
jingled  rhythmically  before  them  and  an  occasional  gentle 
bounce,  the  effect  would  not  be  so  very  different.  As  she 
thought  of  this,  she  began  to  chuckle  at  the  humor  of  it. 
You  may  not  see  any  humor  in  the  idea,  but  Sally  did. 

A  sleigh  turned  the  next  corner  suddenly,  and  a  look  of 
anxiety  came  into  Mr.  Hazen's  face.  "That's  Cap'n  For- 
syth,"  he  said.  "A  most  reckless  driver.  It's  best  to  give 
him  the  road  if  we  can." 

Sally  recognized  the  captain,  in  an  old  blue  sleigh,  very 
strongly  built.  The  captain  had  need  of  vehicles  that  were 
strongly  built  and  he  had  them  built  to  his  order,  like  a  ship. 
He  was  standing  up  in  the  sleigh  and  urging  on  his  horse, 
which  was  on  the  dead  run.  Captain  Forsyth  kept  the  mid 
dle  of  the  road  and  made  no  attempt  to  turn  out.  Perhaps 
he  could  not. 

"Hello,  John,"  he  roared,  waving  his  whip.  "Hello, 
Sally." 

The  horse  must  have  considered  that  the  waving  of  the 
whip  was  an  indication  that  the  captain  wanted  more  speed, 
and  he  put  on  an  extra  burst  of  it.  Captain  Forsyth  sat 
down  suddenly.  It  only  amused  him. 

"What  d'ye  think  o'  that,  John?"  he  shouted. 

"Turn  out,  turn  out,  Stephen!"  Mr.  Hazen  called  anx 
iously.  He  had  not  succeeded  in  getting  completely  out  of 
the  road. 

"Can't  do  it,  John,"  replied  the  captain,  regaining  his 
feet.  The  old  blue  sleigh  struck  the  other  on  the  port 
quarter  with  a  crash.  It  was  not  the  captain's  sleigh  that 
was  injured. 

"Charge  it  to  me,  John,"  the  captain  roared.  He  did 
not  turn  even  his  head.  "By  the  sound  I've  carried  away 
your  after  davits.  Charge  it  to  me."  And  Captain  Forsyth 
was  borne  swiftly  away. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  141 

That  "Charge  it  to  me"  rang  in  Sally's  ears  as  it  died 
away  upon  the  breeze.  She  picked  herself  up,  laughing. 
Mr.  Hazen  was  not  thrown  out  and  was  unhurt.  The  horse 
stood  quietly. 

"Are  you  hurt,  Sally?"  asked  Uncle  John  anxiously. 

"Not  a  bit;  and  you  are  n't,  are  you?  Now,  what  shall 
we  do?" 

"  I  think  there  is  enough  of  the  sleigh  left  to  carry  us  both 
if  we  go  slowly.  If  not,  we'll  have  to  walk." 

Presently  Sally  burst  out  into  a  new  fit  of  chuckling. 
"How  funny  Captain  Forsyth  is!  What  shall  you  do,  Uncle 
John?  Shall  you  charge  it  to  him,  as  he  said  to  do?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Uncle  John  replied.  "It  would  hurt  his  feel 
ings,  if  I  did  n't.  He  would  consider  it  unfriendly.  He  has 
a  good  many  to  pay  for." 

"He  had  much  better  go  on  his  own  feet,"  said  Sally 
reflectively. 


CHAPTER  V 

SALLY  was  fifteen  when  the  final  good  news  came  from 
Fox.  She  was  in  Uncle  John's  office,  waiting  until  he 
should  be  ready  to  go.  Uncle  John's  office  was  on  the 
second  floor  of  a  little  old  wooden  building  where  it  had  al 
ways  been  since  Uncle  John  had  had  an  office.  He  had  chosen 
it  because  it  stood  just  at  the  head  of  a  short  street  leading 
to  a  certain  wharf  —  Hazen's  Wharf ;  and  because  from  its 
windows  one  could  see  the  length  of  the  street  and  the  length 
of  the  wharf  and  note  what  was  going  on  there  and  how 
many  vessels  were  fitting.  The  number  of  vessels  that  were 
fitting  was  surprisingly  great,  even  now,  and  Sally  could  see 
their  yards  sticking  out  over  the  wharf,  although  their  hulls 
were  mostly  hidden  behind  projecting  buildings.  That  view 
from  his  office  windows  had  saved  Mr.  Hazen  many  steps 
in  the  course  bf  a  long  life.  The  fact  that  the  business  centre 
of  the  town  had  moved  up  and  had  left  him  stranded 
disturbed  him  not  at  all.  He  was  still  in  his  business 
centre. 

So  Sally,  thinking  vaguely  of  Fox  and  Henrietta,  sat  at 
a  window  and  watched  and  was  very  well  content  with  the 
view  of  the  harbor  and  the  wharf  and  the  ends  of  yards 
sticking  over  it,  and  as  much  of  the  hulls  of  vessels  as  she 
could  see,  and  the  row  of  oil  casks  with  a  rough  fence  of  old 
ships'  sheathing  behind  them,  and  the  black  dust  of  the 
street.  The  black  dust  was  stirred  up  now  and  then  by  the 
feet  of  horses  and  by  the  wheels  of  the  low,  heavy  truck 
that  they  were  dragging.  Then  a  man,  with  a  heavy  mallet 
in  his  hand,  approached  the  row  of  casks  and  began  to  loosen 
the  bungs.  It  was  an  operation  that  had  become  familiar 
to  Sally  and  she  knew  it  to  be  preparation  for  the  work  of 
the  gauger,  who  would  come  along  later  and  measure  what 


CONCERNING  SALLY  143 

was  in  the  casks.  The  man  with  the  mallet  and  the  gauger 
with  his  stick  were  familiar  figures. 

But  certain  other  familiar  figures  drew  into  her  view  and 
watched  the  man  loosening  the  bungs,  and  seemed  to  be 
greatly  interested  in  the  proceeding.  They  were  the  Car- 
lings  and  Oliver  Pilcher.  Sally  wondered  what  mischief  they 
were  up  to.  That  they  were  up  to  some  mischief  she  had  not 
a  doubt.  The  man  with  the  mallet  must  have  been  a  very 
trusting,  unsuspicious  man.  It  is  not  at  all  likely  that  the 
angelic  faces  of  the  singing  twins  and  Oliver  Pilcher  were 
unknown  about  the  wharves.  Even  if  they  were,  why, 
boys  are  all  —  even  the  best  of  them  —  they  are  all  cut  by 
the  same  pattern,  or  they  ought  to  be.  Don't  we  —  you  and 
I  —  feel  a  sort  of  contempt  for  a  boy  who  is  not?  And  don't 
we  call  him  "sissy"  in  our  hearts?  The  other  boys  will  not 
confine  their  calls  of  "sissy"  to  their  hearts  and  it  is  likely 
to  go  hard  with  that  boy. 

When  the  bungs  were  all  loosened,  that  trusting  man  with 
the  mallet  meandered  slowly  away,  having  paid  no  atten 
tion  whatever  to  the  boys  who  watched  him  so  innocently. 
Sally  saw  the  Carlings  looking  after  him  with  an  alert 
attention,  whatever  there  was  to  be  done  being  evidently 
postponed  until  he  was  out  of  sight.  She  could  not  help 
thinking  how  differently  Jane  Spencer  would  have  acted. 
He  would  have  disdained  to  wait  for  the  man  to  disappear, 
for  there  would  not  be  any  fun  in  it  for  him  unless  there 
was  some  interested  person  present.  But  Jane  Spencer  was 
Jane  Spencer  and  there  was  only  one  of  him. 

The  man  must  have  gone  into  some  building,  although 
Sally  could  n't  be  sure,  for  she  could  n't  see ;  but  the  twins 
turned  their  heads  and  Oliver  Pilcher  gave  a  yell  and  leaped 
for  the  row  of  casks,  closely  followed  by  the  Carlings,  who 
began  chanting  loudly.  Sally  could  not  hear  the  words,  but 
the  chant  marked  the  time  to  which  Oliver  Pilcher  leaped 
into  the  air  and  came  down  with  force  and  precision  upon 
one  bung  after  another.  Just  one  cask  behind  him  came 
Harry  Carling.  Sally  supposed  it  was  Harry,  for  the  Car- 


144  CONCERNING  SALLY 

lings  always  went  in  that  order.  One  cask  behind  Harry 
came  Horry;  and  the  casks  gave  out  a  hollow  sound,  in 
accordance  with  their  degrees  of  emptiness,  after  the  man 
ner  of  casks,  —  especially  oil  casks,  —  as  the  three  boys 
landed  on  their  respective  bungs. 

The  boys  disappeared  behind  the  corner  of  a  building, 
but  as  the  chant  continued,  it  was  to  be  inferred  that  the 
exercise  was  not  yet  finished;  and  in  a  moment  back  they 
came  in  the  reverse  order,  landing  on  the  bungs  with  the 
same  force  and  precision.  For  driving  bungs  solidly,  this 
method  is  to  be  commended. 

But  Horry,  perhaps  feeling  somewhat  hurried  as  he  got 
to  the  end,  missed  his  last  bung,  came  down  with  misdirected 
force  upon  the  slippery  staves  and  landed  on  his  back  in  the 
oil-soaked  dust.  Harry,  unable  to  stop,  landed  upon  him; 
but  Oliver  Pilcher  made  a  sidewise  spring  and  cleared  them. 
The  twins  had  forgotten  to  sing  —  the  moment  was  too 
full  of  excitement  —  and  were  stuttering  and  pounding  each 
other.  Their  voices  were  just  beginning  to  change. 

Some  sound  made  Oliver  Pilcher  turn  his  head.  Evidently, 
he  hated  to. 

"  Cheesit! "  he  cried,  beginning  to  run  before  the  word  was 
out  of  his  mouth. 

Harry  did  not  wait  to  see  what  was  coming,  but  got  to  his 
feet  instantly,  dragging  Horry  by  an  arm,  and  ran.  Horry 
protested  vehemently,  but  he  ran,  and  the  three  boys  came 
up  the  hill,  directly  toward  the  office  windows,  and  disap 
peared  around  the  corner.  Down  on  the  wharf  the  man 
with  the  mallet  was  patiently  loosening  the  bungs  again. 
They  came  hard. 

Sally  gasped  and  chuckled.  "Did  you  see,  Uncle  John?" 
For  Uncle  John  was  standing  at  her  elbow.  "Whose  are 
they?  The  barrels,  I  mean." 

"They  are  mine,  Sally,"  he  replied,  with  a  sigh.  "I  saw 
some  of  it." 

"Oh,  it's  too  bad,"  said  she  quickly,  "if  they  are 
yours." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  145 

"It's  no  great  matter.  Patrick  has  plenty  of  time.  It's 
only  a  little  annoyance." 

"And  did  you  see  the  back  of  Horry  Carling's  jacket?" 
asked  Sally,  horrified.  "How  will  he  ever  get  it  clean?" 

"He  can't,"  answered  Uncle  John  briefly. 

"Their  mother  must  have  a  hard  time,"  said  Sally 
thoughtfully,  after  a  moment  of  silence.  "Are  you  ready  to 
go  now?" 

"Just  about.  Here's  a  letter  for  you,  from  Fox,  I  suppose. 
I  '11  be  ready  by  the  time  you  have  read  it." 

Sally  thanked  him  and  took  the  letter.  It  contained 
rather  momentous  news;  news  about  her  mother.  It  was 
good  news,  the  best  that  could  be,  Sally  thought.  She  had 
been  getting  good  news  about  her  mother  all  along.  Indeed, 
she  had  been  getting  letters  from  her  mother  occasionally 
for  nearly  two  years;  mere  notes  at  first,  her  dear  love,  scrib 
bled  on  a  scrap  of  paper.  Then  they  began  to  be  a  little 
longer  and  at  lessening  intervals ;  and  for  some  months  now 
they  had  been  regular  letters,  not  long,  to  be  sure,  but  let 
ters.  The  improvement  was  slow,  very  slow! 

This  news  was  different.  Her  mother  was  well  enough, 
at  last,  to  leave  Doctor  Galen's  care.  There  were  several 
things  that  she  might  do;  and  Fox  suggested  that  Mrs. 
Ladue  come  out  to  her  old  home  to  live.  Henrietta  and  he 
would  be  happy  to  continue  there,  if  that  met  with  the 
approval  of  all  concerned.  There  would  be  money  enough 
to  carry  on  the  establishment,  he  thought.  But  what  were 
Sally's  plans?  What  did  she  prefer?  Meanwhile  — 

Sally  knew  very  well  whose  money  there  would  be  enough 
of,  if  Fox's  suggestion  were  accepted.  It  would  mean  that 
Fox  would  support  them;  for  she  knew,  too,  that  they  did 
not  have  money  enough.  Oh,  mercy,  no,  not  nearly  enough ; 
not  enough  even  for  them  to  pretend  that  it  would  do.  But 
she  must  be  with  her  mother,  and  Charlie  must,  too.  She 
would  not  let  Charlie  be  a  bother.  It  would  be  a  little  harder 
than  it  used  to  be,  the  care  of  Charlie,  for  Cousin  Patty 
had  —  well  —  and  Sally  did  not  say  it,  even  to  herself.  She 


146  CONCERNING  SALLY 

felt  that  it  would  be  almost  treason.  What  should  she  do? 
What  could  she  do,  for  that  matter?  It  needed  thought. 

So  Uncle  John  found  a  sober  and  serious  Sally  waiting  for 
him.  He  noted  it  at  once. 

"What  is  it,  Sally?"  he  asked.  "Not  bad  news,  I  hope?" 

He  spoke  rather  anxiously.  Sally's  worries  were  his  con 
cern  ;  and  that  was  not  such  a  bad  state  of  affairs  either. 

Sally  smiled  up  at  him.  "Oh,  no,"  she  said.  "It's  good 
news,  but  I  have  to  think  what  I  shall  do."  And  she  told 
him  all  about  it. 

They  were  well  on  their  way  home  by  the  time  Sally  had 
finished  her  exposition  of  the  question  which  troubled  her. 
It  was  too  new  to  her  to  have  been  thought  out  and  Sally 
presented  every  aspect  as  it  occurred  to  her. 

"It  seems  to  be  a  large  question,"  said  Uncle  John 
thoughtfully,  "for  a  little  girl  to  have  to  answer,  all  by 
herself."  Suddenly  he  turned  and  looked  at  Sally.  "Bless 
me !  You  are  n't  little  any  more.  I  must  stop  calling  you 
a  little  girl.  How  old  are  you,  Sally?" 

"Fifteen  last  spring,"  Sally  replied.  "Had  you  forgotten, 
Uncle  John?" 

"No,  oh,  no,  I  suppose  not,  but  it  is  hard  to  realize  that 
you  are  growing  up  so  fast.  Why,  you  are  nearly  as  tall  as  I 
am.  And  how  long  have  you  been  with  us?" 

"Almost  four  years,  Uncle  John." 

"Bless  me!  So  you  have,  Sally.  It  seems  only  last  week 
that  you  came;  and  yet,  you  have  always  been  with  us. 
Well,  my  dear,  I  don't  find  myself  quite  ready  to  send  you 
off  again,  and  so  I  advise  you  to  dismiss  the  puzzling  ques 
tion  from  your  mind  for  a  day  or  two.  Better  let  me  bother 
over  it  awhile.  Fox  can  wait  for  a  few  days.  He  won't 
mind,  will  he?" 

"No,"  she  said,  smiling,  "Fox  won't  mind.  He  has  been 
waiting  four  years  already." 

"Fox  is  an  excellent  young  man,"  Mr.  Hazen  murmured. 
"I  must  see  what  Patty  has  to  say." 

Patty  had  a  good  deal  to  say.  She  came  to  her  father  in  a 


CONCERNING  SALLY  147 

hurry  and  in  some  agitation  that  same  evening,  after  Sally 
had  gone  to  bed.  It  saved  him  the  trouble  of  introducing 
the  subject  and  put  the  burden  of  proof  on  the  other  side. 
Not  that  it  mattered  particularly  to  Mr.  Hazen  where  the 
burden  of  proof  lay.  He  was  accustomed  to  have  his  own 
quiet  way.  In  fact,  consultation  with  Patty  was  rather  an 
empty  formality ;  but  it  was  a  form  which  he  always  observed 
scrupulously. 

"Oh,  father,"  she  began,  rather  flurried,  "what  do  you 
suppose  Sally  has  just  told  me?  Her  mother  — " 

"  I  know.  I  was  meaning  to  speak  to  you  about  it." 

"I  am  all  upset.  I  can't  bear  to  think  of  sending  Charlie 
away  now."  There  were  tears  in  poor  Miss  Patty's  eyes. 

Mr.  Hazen  could  not  quite  repress  a  smile.  "True,"  he 
said;  "I  had  forgotten  him." 

"Oh,  father!"  Miss  Patty  exclaimed  reproachfully.  "How 
could  you?" 

"It  is  incomprehensible,  but  I  was  thinking  of  Sally. 
Never  mind,  Patty,  it  comes  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end. 
Would  it  be  quite  convenient  to  ask  Sarah  Ladue  to  come 
here?" 

"Ask  Cousin  Sarah  to  come  here  to  live?  "  Miss  Patty 
echoed,  in  some  consternation. 

"Why,  yes,  Patty.  I  understand  that  she  is  likely  to  live 
and—" 

"Oh,  father!"  Miss  Patty  cried  again.  "You  know  I 
did  n't  mean  — " 

"I  don't  pretend,"  Mr.  Hazen  resumed,  smiling,  "to  any 
particular  love  for  Sarah,  whom  I  never  saw  more  than 
once  or  twice  in  my  life.  Even  that  must  have  been  many 
years  ago.  But,  as  I  recollect,  she  was  a  pretty,  unassuming 
young  woman  whom  I  thought,  at  the  time,  altogether  too 
good  for  Charles."  Miss  Patty  looked  shocked.  "Oh,  there 
is  nothing  gained  by  pretending  to  be  blind  to  Charles's 
weakness.  He  was  a  gambler  before  he  left  college.  I  knew 
it  very  well.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done.  Meddling  with 
other  people's  children  is  a  vice,  Patty.  It  never  does  any 


148  CONCERNING  SALLY 

good.  I  have  some  misgivings — "  Mr.  Hazen  paused 
abruptly.  There  seemed  to  him  nothing  to  be  gained  by 
following  out  that  line  of  thought  either. 

"Some  misgivings  about  what,  father?"  Patty  prompted. 

"It  does  n't  matter,  Patty.  I  have  too  many  misgivings 
about  everything.  It  is  the  fault  of  age.  As  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  Sally  looks  like  her  mother.  I  hope  her  character  — 
but  Sally's  character  is  all  right.  As  to  Sarah,  we  have 
spare  rooms,  have  n't  we?" 

"Ye — es,"  assented  Miss  Patty  reluctantly.  She  hated 
to  give  in,  but  she  might  have  known  that  she  would  have 
to.  She  did  know  it.  "But,  father,  —  supporting  the  whole 
family—" 

"There  is  no  question,"  said  Mr.  Hazen  quietly;  and 
Patty  knew  that  there  was  no  more  to  be  said.  "It  is  a 
choice  between  letting  that  young  Mr.  Sanderson  support 
them,  —  which  he  would  be  very  glad  to  do,  Patty,  —  and 
asking  Sarah  to  come  here.  I  much  prefer  to  ask  her.  I 
wish  to  keep  Sally  with  us  and  you  are  not  willing  to  let 
Charlie  go.  On  this  plan  we  shall  keep  them  both.  Will  you 
write  to  Sarah,  proposing  it?  Write  as  cordially  as  you  can, 
Patty,  will  you?  Thank  you." 

So  it  happened  that  Mrs.  Ladue  came  to  Whitby  in  Sep 
tember.  It  could  not  be  said  to  have  happened,  perhaps, 
but,  at  all  events,  she  came.  They  all  went  down  behind 
the  stout  horse  to  meet  her;  all  but  Uncle  John.  There  were 
Cousin  Patty  and  Charlie  and  Sally  herself.  Sally's  eyes 
were  very  bright  and  there  was  the  old  spot  of  brilliant  color 
in  either  cheek.  Uncle  John  noticed  it.  He  patted  her  hand 
as  she  got  into  the  carryall,  but  he  did  not  speak.  Miss 
Patty  did,  after  they  got  started.  Sally  was  sitting  up  very 
straight  and  she  was  looking  straight  ahead  and  the  spots  of 
color  were  in  her  cheeks  still.  It  was  much  as  she  had  looked 
when  she  went  away  from  her  old  home  that  she  so  loved. 
Miss  Patty  could  not  understand  it.  She  was  even  a  little 
afraid,  I  think. 

"Sally,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  "don't  —  don't  look  so  — 


CONCERNING  SALLY  149 

so  strained.  Surely,  this  is  not  a  time  to  feel  worried  or 
anxious.  Surely,  this  is  a  —  a  joyous  occasion." 

To  Miss  Patty's  surprise,  Sally  burst  out  laughing.  As 
Miss  Patty  had  implied,  she  did  look  strained.  There  may 
have  been  something  a  little  hysterical  about  her  laugh. 
Miss  Patty  was  more  afraid  than  ever.  She  proposed  stop 
ping  at  the  apothecary's  and  getting  a  little  camphor  or  — 
or  something. 

But  Sally  protested  that  she  did  not  need  camphor  or 
anything.  "You  know,  Cousin  Patty,"  she  went  on,  the 
tears  standing  in  her  eyes,  "I  have  n't  seen  my  mother  for 
four  years,  and  I  don't  know,  quite,  what  to  expect.  I  am 
very  —  very  fond  of  my  mother,  Cousin  Patty.  I  can't  help 
my  feelings,  but  you  needn't  be  afraid"  —  and  Sally 
laughed  a  little  —  "that  I  am  going  to  have  hysterics  or 
anything,  for  I'm  not." 

Miss  Patty  murmured  some  reply.  Sally  did  not  know 
what  it  was,  and  Miss  Patty  did  n't  either. 

"I  don't  suppose,"  Sally  continued,  "that  Charlie  re 
members  mother  very  well,  for  he  — " 

"  I  do,  too,"  said  Charlie,  with  the  pleasant  manner  which 
had  become  usual. 

"Very  well,  then,  you  do,"j*eplied  Sally  patiently.  And 
she  said  no  more,  for  they  were  already  turning  down  the 
steep  hill  that  led  to  the  station. 

In  time  —  it  seemed  a  very  long  time  —  but  in  time  the 
train  came  in ;  and  Sally  watched  eagerly  the  crowd  flowing 
down  the  steps  and  spreading  out  on  the  platform.  Pres 
ently,  near  the  end,  came  Henrietta,  as  fast  as  the  people 
would  permit.  Sally  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  for  she  was 
beginning  to  be  afraid  —  and  there  was  Fox.  Sally  edged 
impatiently  toward  the  car  steps.  Fox  was  not  looking  at 
her;  he  was  helping  a  lady  whose  eyes  wandered  eagerly 
over  the  waiting  people.  The  lady's  mouth  drooped  at  one 
corner  and  her  hair  showed  just  a  little  gray  behind  her 
lifted  veil. 

Sally  ran  forward,  elbowing  her  way  without  remorse; 


150  CONCERNING  SALLY 

she  had  but  one  thought.    Her  chin  quivered.    A  wave  of 

tenderness  overwhelmed  her. 

"Oh,  mother!  Mother,  dear!  Don't  you  know  me?" 
The  drooping  lips  parted  in  a  lovely  smile.  Sally  felt  her 

mother's  arms  around  her.   How  she  had  longed  for  that! 
"Why,  Sally!   Why,  my  own  great  girl!   Why,  darling, 

don't  cry!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

THEY  soon  got  used  to  Mrs.  Ladue's  gentle  presence 
among  them.  Uncle  John  got  used  to  it  more  quickly 
than  Sally  did  herself;  much  more  quickly  than  Cou 
sin  Patty  did.  But  then,  her  coming  was  none  of  Cousin 
Patty's  doing,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  was  Cousin  Patty 
who  sent  the  invitation.  It  took  Patty  some  time  to  get 
over  that.  The  things  that  we  are  forced  to  do,  however 
gentle  the  force  may  be,  are  seldom  wholly  acceptable  to 
us.  As  for  Sally,  her  happiness  was  too  great  to  make  it 
possible  for  her  to  get  used  to  it  immediately.  She  used  to 
run  in  when  she  got  home  from  school  and  hug  her  mother. 
She  wanted  to  make  sure  that  her  presence  was  a  "true 
fact,"  as  she  said.  She  wanted  to  touch;  to  be  certain  that 
she  had  not  dreamed  it. 

Mrs.  Ladue  used  to  sit  beside  the  table  with  its  stained 
green  cover,  in  that  very  homelike  back  parlor,  in  the  long 
evenings,  with  Uncle  John  in  his  great  chair  before  the 
bubbling  fire.  Miss  Patty  ran  —  or,  no,  she  did  not  run, 
literally.  That  would  have  been  most  undignified  besides 
being  unnecessary;  but  it  was  probably  unnecessary  for 
Miss  Patty  to  go  out  so  often  and  stay  so  long  about  her 
household  duties.  The  duties  of  the  household  rather 
oppressed  Miss  Patty  and  sat  heavily  upon  her.  Household 
duties?  Better  be  about  them,  Miss  Patty  thought.  So  she 
flitted  nervously  in  and  out  twenty  times  during  an  evening. 
She  was  out  more  than  she  was  in  and  her  chair  on  the  other 
side  of  the  fire  from  Uncle  John's  was  usually  empty.  She 
went  to  glance  into  the  kitchen,  to  see  what  Bridget  or  Mary 
could  be  about,  it  was  so  quiet  there.  She  had  n't  heard  a 
sound  for  the  longest  while.  "Don't  you  think  I'd  better 
see,  father?"  And  her  father  would  smile  quietly  and  tell 


i52  CONCERNING  SALLY 

her  to  do  as  she  liked.  Or  she  would  wonder  whether  the 
maids  had  locked  the  cellar  door ;  or  there  was  that  window 
in  the  pantry;  or  she  had  to  see  Charlie  safely  into  bed, 
although  one  would  think  that  Charlie  was  very  nearly  old 
enough  to  see  himself  safely  into  bed.  There  were  things 
without  end;  anything  that  might  not  be  just  as  Patty 
thought  it  should  be. 

Uncle  John  and  Mrs.  Ladue  sat  quietly  through  it  all, 
Mrs.  Ladue  with  her  sewing  or  her  embroidery  or  her  cro 
chet  work  or  her  book.  She  was  not  much  of  an  invalid, 
after  all ;  not  enough  of  an  invalid  to  give  any  trouble.  She 
had  to  be  careful,  that  was  all.  She  must  not  get  too  tired 
and  she  must  have  plenty  of  sleep.  Those  two  things  Doctor 
Galen  had  enjoined  upon  her  at  parting,  with  much  impres- 
siveness.  And  he  thought  that  he  might  as  well  drop  a  line 
to  Meriwether  Beatty  asking  him  to  keep  an  eye  on  her  and 
to  let  him  know  how  she  was  getting  along.  "So  you  see, 
my  lady,  you  are  not  out  of  my  clutches  yet,"  the  doctor 
finished  merrily.  To  which  Mrs.  Ladue  had  replied,  almost 
tearfully,  that  she  had  no  wish  to  get  out  of  his  clutches 
and  that  she  never  could  repay  him  and  she  did  n't  want  to 
and  she  should  n't  try.  She  liked  to  feel  that  she  owed  her 
life  to  him  — 

"Tut,  tut!"  said  the  doctor,  smiling.  "Don't  forget  Fox." 
And  Mrs.  Ladue  protested  that  there  was  not  the  least 
danger  of  her  forgetting  Fox.  She  did  n't  know  where  they 
would  all  be  if  it  had  not  been  for  Fox,  and  she  was  very 
fond  of  him,  and  she  thought —  Then  Fox,  himself,  had 
appeared,  and  she  said  no  more  upon  that  subject,  and  they 
got  into  their  train  and  presently  they  came  away.  But, 
whatever  Mrs.  Ladue's  thoughts  may  have  been,  on  that 
subject  or  on  any  other,  she  said  little  and  seemed  to  invite 
confidence.  There  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  she  wished 
confidences  from  anybody.  It  may  have  been  only  that  she 
kept  her  thoughts  to  herself,  for  the  most  part,  as  Sally  did, 
and  that  she  was  straightforward  and  truthful,  as  Sally  was. 
That  is  not  to  imply  that  Sally  was  an  exact  counterpart 


CONCERNING  SALLY  153 

of  her  mother.  Probably  Sally,  in  her  mother's  place,  would 
have  done  very  differently;  almost  certainly  her  relations 
with  Professor  Charles  Ladue  would  have  been  different. 
Even  as  it  was,  it  will  be  remembered  that  he  seemed  to 
have  a  certain  fear  of  his  little  daughter.  He  had  no  fear  of 
his  wife.  Mrs.  Ladue's  environment,  to  use  a  phrase  that 
needs  a  deal  of  explaining  before  we  know  exactly  what  we 
mean,  had  been  unsuited  to  her. 

The  new  environment  was  not  unsuited  to  her,  at  least 
as  far  as  Uncle  John  was  concerned.  She  helped  to  create 
an  atmosphere  of  tranquillity;  an  atmosphere  eminently 
suited  to  an  old  man  and  one  to  which  that  particular  old 
man  had  not  been  accustomed.  There  was  nothing  tranquil 
or  serene  about  Miss  Patty.  Uncle  John,  it  is  to  be  pre 
sumed,  liked  tranquillity  and  serenity.  He  succeeded  in 
attaining  to  a  surprising  degree  of  it,  in  his  own  person, 
considering.  Sally  had  been  a  help  in  the  past  four  years; 
it  was  going  on  to  five  years  now. 

He  was  thinking  upon  these  matters  one  evening  as  he 
sat  reading.  He  was  thinking  more  of  them  than  of  the 
page  before  him.  He  put  the  book  down  slowly,  and  looked 
up.  Patty  was  upstairs  with  Charlie. 

"Sarah,"  he  remarked,  "I  find  it  very  pleasant  to  have 
you  with  us." 

Mrs.  Ladue  was  surprised.  There  was  no  occasion  for 
that  remark  unless  Uncle  John  just  wanted  to  make  it. 
Sally,  who  had  not  yet  gone  upstairs,  flushed  with  sudden 
pleasure  and  her  eyes  shone. 

"There,  mother!"  she  cried.  "There  now!  You  see. 
What  did  I  tell— " 

In  Mrs.  Ladue's  face  the  faint  color  was  coming  and  going. 
She  spoke  with  some  emotion. 

"Thank  you,  Uncle  John.  It  was  kind  of  you  to  ask  us. 
I  find  it  very  pleasant  to  be  here.  And  that  —  it  would  be 
so  easy  not  to  make  it  pleasant.  I  have  n't  —  I  can't  thank 
you  suitably — " 

"There  is  no  question  of  thanks,  Sarah."  he  replied,  smil- 


154  CONCERNING  SALLY 

ing  gravely.  "I  hope  you  will  put  that  out  of  your  mind. 
You  give  more  than  you  get  —  you  and  Sally." 

"I  am  very  glad,"  Mrs.  Ladue  murmured;  "very  glad 
and  grateful.  Sally  is  a  good  girl."  Uncle  John  smiled  at 
Sally.  "She  would  not  bother  you  — " 

Mr.  Hazen  reached  forth  and  patted  Sally's  hand  as  it 
lay  on  the  table.  "No.  Sally  doesn't  bother  me  very 
much." 

"But  Charlie,"  Mrs.  Ladue  continued,  somewhat  anx 
iously, —  "Charlie,  I'm  afraid,  does.  He  has  changed  a 
good  deal  in  these  four  years.  He's  hard  to  manage." 

"Patty  can't  manage  him,  if  you  mean  that,"  Mr.  Hazen 
agreed.  "She  doesn't  try  very  hard.  But  he's  developed 
in  the  wrong  direction,  that's  all,  I  think." 

"No."  There  was  a  curious  hardness  in  Mrs.  Ladue's 
voice  and  manner.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  she  could 
be  speaking  of  her  own  little  son.  "I  doubt  if  he  could  be 
developed  in  any  other  direction.  He's  very  much  like  his 
father.  His  father  was — "  She  stopped  abruptly.  "But 
there  is  no  use  in  going  over  that,"  she  added. 

Mr.  Hazen  nodded.  "I  knew  Charles  before  you  did," 
he  observed,  "and  —  but,  as  you  say,  there  is  nothing  to  be 
gained  by  going  into  that.  I  may  as  well  speak  to  Patty  — 
again." 

"I  have  absolutely  no  influence  with  Charlie  now,"  Mrs. 
Ladue  sighed.  "  It  is  natural  enough  that  I  should  not  have 
any." 

Mr.  Hazen's  talk  with  Patty  amounted  to  nothing,  as  was 
to  be  expected.  No  doubt  he  did  expect  it,  for  it  is  not  to  be 
supposed  that  he  could  have  lived  with  Patty  Havering  for 
nearly  forty  years  without  knowing  her  traits.  She  had  no 
real  firmness.  She  had  obstinacy  enough;  a  quiet,  mulish 
obstinacy  which  left  her  exactly  where  one  found  her.  She 
was  absolutely  untouched  by  argument  or  persuasion,  to 
which  she  made  little  reply,  although  she  sometimes  fretted 
and  grew  restive  under  it.  Nothing  short  of  her  father's 
quiet  "I  wish  it,  Patty  "  was  of  the  least  avail.  She  gave 


CONCERNING  SALLY  155 

in  to  that  because  she  knew  that  it  was  a  command,  not 
because  she  knew  that  it  was  right.  As  to  that,  was  not  she 
always  right?  She  never  had  the  least  doubt  of  it.  She 
sometimes  doubted  the  expediency  of  an  act;  it  was  not 
expedient  to  disobey  her  father's  implied  commands.  Not 
that  she  had  ever  tried  it,  but  she  did  not  think  that  it  would 
be  expedient.  I  don't  think  that  it  would  have  been  either. 
It  was  just  as  well,  perhaps,  that  she  never  tried  it.  But,  in 
a  matter  like  this  one  of  Charlie,  there  was  no  command 
direct  enough  to  enforce  obedience.  You  know  what  I 
mean,  as  Miss  Patty  might  have  said;  thereby  implying 
that  she  hoped  that  you  did,  for  she  did  n't.  She  was  not 
quite  clear  about  it  in  her  own  mind,  but  there  seemed  little 
risk  in  doing  as  she  wanted  to  rather  than  as  her  father 
wanted  her  to.  Her  own  ideas  were  rather  hazy  and  the 
more  she  tried  to  think  it  out  the  more  muddled  she  got. 
Anyway,  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  gave  it  up,  she  would  n't, 
and  she  got  up  from  the  rocking-chair  which  she  permitted 
herself  in  her  own  room  and  went  briskly  about  her  duties. 
She  had  sat  there  for  as  much  as  half  an  hour.  She  had  been 
watching  Charlie  chasing  about  Morton's  lot,  for  she  could 
see  over  the  high  wall  as  she  sat.  Most  of  the  boys  were 
tolerant  chaps,  as  most  boys  are,  after  a  certain  age;  but 
some  of  them  were  not  and  some  others  had  not  reached  that 
age  of  tolerance  apparently.  Fortunately  for  Miss  Patty's 
peace  of  mind  she  did  not  happen  to  see  any  of  that. 

Miss  Patty,  however,  did  not  make  public  her  decision, 
but  Mrs.  Ladue  knew  what  it  was  just  as  well  as  if  she  had 
shouted  it  from  the  housetop.  Where  did  a  talk  with  Patty 
end  but  where  it  began?  And  Mrs.  Ladue  had  been  sitting 
at  her  own  window  —  she  shared  Sally's  room  —  she  had 
been  sitting  at  her  own  window  while  Patty  sat  at  hers  and 
looked  at  Charlie  over  the  wall.  But  Mrs.  Ladue  watched 
longer  than  Patty  and  she  saw  several  things  which  Patty 
was  spared;  to  be  sure,  the  wall  was  very  high  and  cut  off 
the  view  from  a  large  part  of  the  lot,  but  she  saw  Ollie 
Pilcher  run  after  Charlie  at  last  and  chase  him  into  that 


1 56  CONCERNING  SALLY 

part  of  the  lot  which  she  could  not  see.  Ollie  was  not  noted 
for  his  patience,  but  Mrs.  Ladue  thought  the  loss  of  the 
remnants  of  it  was  excusable,  in  the  circumstances.  Then 
there  was  an  outcry  and  it  was  not  Ollie's  voice  that  cried 
out. 

Mrs.  Ladue  sighed  and  got  out  of  her  comfortable  chair 
and  went  downstairs.  She  hoped  she  should  be  ahead  of 
Patty  when  Charlie  came  in.  She  was  not,  but  she  and 
Patty  waited  together ;  and  Charlie  came.  He  was  not  cry 
ing,  but  the  traces  of  tears  were  on  his  face.  Miss  Patty 
gave  a  little  exclamation  of  horror. 

"Charlie,"  began  Mrs.  Ladue  hurriedly,  before  Patty 
could  speak,  "come  up  with  me.  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

Charlie  wanted  to  go  with  Cousin  Patty;  he  did  n't  want 
to  be  talked  to.  He  said  so  with  much  petulance. 

"Let  me  take  the  poor  child,  Sarah,"  Patty  began. 

"After  I  have  talked  with  him,  Patty,"  said  Mrs.  Ladue 
patiently.  Nobody  should  know  how  she  dreaded  this  talk. 
"Come,  Charlie." 

She  made  Charlie  mount  the  stairs  ahead  of  her  and  she 
succeeded  in  steering  him  into  her  room.  He  washed  his 
face  with  furious  haste. 

"Charlie,  dear  boy,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  was  watching 
you  for  a  long  time  this  afternoon.  You  know  that  I  can 
see  very  well  what  goes  on  in  the  lot  from  this  window." 

He  was  wiping  his  face  and  he  exposed  his  eyes  for  a 
moment,  gazing  at  his  mother  over  the  edge  of  the  towel. 
They  were  handsome  eyes  and  they  were  filled  now  with  a 
calculating  thoughtfulness,  which  his  mother  noted.  It  did 
not  make  her  feel  any  easier. 

Charlie  considered  it  worth  risking.  "Then  you  saw," 
he  said,  still  with  that  petulant  note  in  his  voice,  "how  the 
boys  picked  on  me.  Why,  they — " 

"  I  saw,  Charlie,"  Mrs.  Ladue  interrupted,  smiling  wearily, 
"not  how  the  boys  picked  on  you,  but  how  you  bothered 
them.  I  thought  Ollie  was  very  patient  and  I  did  n't  blame 
him  a  bit." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  157 

"But  he  hurt  me,"  Charlie  cried  in  astonishment.  It  was 
the  most  heinous  sin  that  he  knew  of.  Patty  would  think  so. 

"You  deserved  to  be  hurt.  You  are  eleven,  Charlie,  and 
I'm  surprised  that  you  don't  see  that  your  actions  will 
leave  you  without  friends,  absolutely  without  friends 
within  a  few  years.  Where  should  we  be  now,  Charlie," 
continued  Mrs.  Ladue  gently,  "if  we  had  had  no  friends?" 

"Guess  Cousin  Patty  'd  be  my  friend,"  Charlie  grumbled. 
"Guess  she  would." 

"You  will  wear  out  even  her  doting  affection  if  you  keep 
on,"  replied  his  mother  almost  sharply.  It  was  difficult  to 
imagine  her  speaking  with  real  sharpness.  She  regretted  it 
instantly.  "My  dear  little  son,  why  won't  you  do  differ 
ently?  Why  do  you  prefer  to  make  the  boys  all  dislike  you? 
It's  for  your  own  good  that  I  have  talked  to  you,  and  I 
have  n't  said  so  very  much.  You  don't  please  Uncle  John, 
Charlie.  You  would  be  so  much  happier  if  you  would  only 
do  as  Sally  does  and  — " 

"Huh ! "  said  Charlie,  throwing  down  the  towel.  " Cousin 
Patty  wants  me,  mother."  And  he  bolted  out  of  the  door. 

Tears  came  to  Mrs.  Ladue's  eyes.  Her  eyes  were  still  wet 
when  Doctor  Beatty  came  in.  He  could  not  help  seeing. 

"Not  crying?"  he  asked.   "That  will  never  do." 

Mrs.  Ladue  smiled.  "I  have  been  talking  to  Charlie," 
she  said,  as  if  that  were  a  sufficient  explanation. 

Indeed,  it  seemed  to  be.  That,  in  itself,  was  cause  for 
grief.  "Ah!"  said  the  doctor.  "Charlie  didn't  receive  it 
with  meekness,  I  judge." 

She  did  not  answer  directly.  "It  seems  hopeless,"  she 
returned  at  last.  "  I  have  been  away  from  him  so  long  that 
I  am  virtually  a  stranger.  And  Patty  —  "  She  did  not  finish. 

Doctor  Beatty  laughed.  "I  know  Patty.  I  think  I  may 
say  that  I  know  her  very  well.  Why,  there  was  one  period 
— "  He  remembered  in  time  and  his  tone  changed.  "Yes, 
there  was  one  period  when  I  thought  I  knew  her  very  well. 
Ancient  history,"  he  went  on  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  — 
"ancient  history." 


I58  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Mrs.  Ladue  said  nothing,  but  she  looked  sympathetic 
and  she  smiled.  Doctor  Beatty  sat  down  conveniently  near 
her,  but  yet  far  enough  away  to  be  able  to  watch  her 
closely. 

Meanwhile  the  doctor  talked.  It  was  of  little  consequence 
what  he  talked  about,  and  he  rambled  along  from  one 
subject  to  another,  talking  of  anything  that  came  into  his 
head;  of  anything  but  Mrs.  Ladue's  health.  And  the 
strange  thing  about  it  was  that  she  had  no  inkling  as  to 
what  the  doctor  was  about.  She  had  no  idea  that  she  was 
under  observation.  She  only  thought  it  queer  that  he  had 
so  much  time  to  devote  to  talking  to  her.  He  could  n't  be 
very  busy;  but  she  liked  it  and  would  have  been  sorry  to 
have  him  give  up  his  visits. 

Presently,  in  his  rambling  talk,  the  doctor  was  once  more 
speaking  of  the  period  of  ancient  history  to  which  he  had 
already  thoughtlessly  alluded. 

"There  was  a  time,"  he  said,  regarding  Mrs.  Ladue 
thoughtfully,  "when  I  thought  I  knew  Patty  pretty  well. 
I  used  to  be  here  pretty  often,  you  know.  She  has  spoken 
of  it,  perhaps?"  Mrs.  Ladue  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 
"Ah,  what  a  blow  to  vanity!  I  used  to  think  —  but  my 
thoughts  were  of  scarcely  more  value  then  than  they  are 
now,  so  it 's  no  matter  what  I  thought.  It 's  a  great  while  — 
fifteen  or  twenty  years  —  struggling  young  doctor  in  the 
first  flush  of  youth  and  a  growing  practice.  Practice  like 
an  incubator  baby;  very,  very  frail.  I  suppose  I  must  have 
been  a  sentimental  young  chap;  but  not  so  young  either. 
Must  have  been  nearly  thirty,  both  of  us.  Then  the  baby 
got  out  of  the  incubator  and  I  could  n't  come  so  often." 

He  was  speaking  reminiscently.  Then,  suddenly,  he 
realized  what  he  was  saying  and  roused  himself  with  a  start. 

"Patty  was  charming,  of  course,  charming,"  he  went  on, 
smiling  across  at  Mrs.  Ladue.  "Yes,  much  as  she  is  now, 
with  the  same  charm;  the  same  charm,  in  moderation." 

His  eyes  were  very  merry  as  he  finished,  and  Mrs.  Ladue 
laughed  gently. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  159 

"Oh,  Doctor,"  she  said,  "I  ought  not  to  laugh  —  at 
Patty.  It's  your  fault." 

Doctor  Beatty  looked  horror-struck.  "Laugh  at  Patty!" 
he  exclaimed.  "Never!  Nothing  further  from  my  intention. 
I  only  run  on,  like  a  babbling  brook.  I  'm  really  not  respon 
sible  for  what  I  say.  No  significance  to  be  attached  to  any 
observations  I  may  make.  You  won't  mind,  will  you?" 

"I  won't  mind,"  Mrs.  Ladue  agreed.   "I  don't." 

"Thank  you.  I  knew  you  wouldn't."  Doctor  Beatty 
rose  and  stood  for  a  moment  with  his  hand  on  the  knob  of 
the  door.  "You're  all  right  for  a  couple  of  weeks  anyway, 
or  I  'd  warn  you  to  keep  your  liver  on  the  job.  I  always  give 
that  advice  to  Patty,  partly  because  she  needs  it  and  partly 
because  it  is  amusing  to  witness  the  starting  of  a  certain 
train  of  emotions.  Good-bye." 

And  the  doctor  went  out,  leaving  Mrs.  Ladue  smiling  to 
herself.  She  had  forgotten  about  Charlie. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SALLY  graduated  from  her  school  in  the  following  June. 
Of  all  the  persons  immediately  concerned  in  that 
affair,  even  including  Sally  herself,  I  am  inclined  to 
believe  that  Mr.  Hazen  was  the  most  acutely  interested. 
He  was  not  excited  over  it.  A  man  of  his  age  does  not  easily 
get  excited,  even  if  he  is  of  an  excitable  disposition,  which 
Mr.  Hazen  was  not;  but  there  is  reason  to  think  that  he 
had  all  the  hopes  and  fears  which  Sally  ought  to  have  had, 
but  of  which  she  gave  no  sign.  She  had  confidence  in  herself 
and  had  no  doubts  to  speak  of.  At  any  rate,  she  did  not 
speak  of  any,  but  took  the  whole  thing  as  a  matter  of  course 
and  one  to  be  gone  through  with  in  its  due  season.  For  that 
matter,  nobody  suspected  Mr.  Hazen  of  harboring  fears, 
although  it  was  taken  for  granted  that  he  had  hopes.  He 
gave  no  outward  sign  of  perturbation,  and  his  fondness  for 
Sally  was  no  secret. 

There  was  never,  at  that  school,  any  long  period  without 
its  little  diversions.  Jane  Spencer,  to  be  sure,  was  in  the 
graduating  class  and  his  behavior  had  been  most  exemplary 
for  some  months;  but  there  was  no  such  inhibition  on  the 
behavior  of  Ollie  Pilcher  and  the  Carlings.  The  Carlings 
appeared  one  morning  with  grotesquely  high  collars,  at 
the  sight  of  which  a  titter  ran  about  the  schoolroom.  The 
Carlings  preserved  an  admirable  gravity.  Mr.  MacDalie 
looked  up,  eyed  the  twins  with  marked  displeasure,  but  said 
nothing,  and  the  titter  gradually  faded  out.  The  Carlings 
were  aggrieved  and  felt  that  they  had  been  guilty  of  a  fail 
ure.  So  they  had,  in  a  measure,  and  Sally  could  not  help 
feeling  sorry  for  them.  She  reflected  that  Jane  would  never 
have  done  anything  of  that  kind.  Jane  would  never  have 
made  a  failure  of  anything  that  he  undertook,  either.  Jane 


CONCERNING   SALLY  161 

would  not  have  done  what  Ollie  Pilcher  did,  later,  although 
that  effort  of  Ollie's  was  a  conspicuous  success,  after  its 
kind. 

It  was  the  fashion,  among  certain  of  the  boys,  to  have 
their  hair  clipped  when  the  warm  weather  came  on.  Everett 
Morton  had  never  had  it  done,  nor  had  Dick  Torrington, 
nor  did  Jane  Spencer.  They  were  not  in  the  clipped-hair 
caste.  But  Ollie  Pilcher  was;  and  it  was  no  surprise  to  the 
other  boys  when,  a  week  before  school  closed,  Ollie  came 
with  clipped  hair  showing  below  his  cap.  He  was  just  in 
time,  and  he  went  at  once  and  in  haste  to  the  schoolroom, 
removing  his  cap  as  he  entered  the  door.  The  bell  in  Mr. 
MacDalie's  hand  rang  as  he  took  his  seat. 

Mr.  MacDalie  was  not  looking  at  Ollie,  as  it  happened, 
but  those  behind  Ollie  could  not  help  seeing  him.  A  ripple 
of  laughter  started ;  it  grew  as  more  of  those  present  caught 
sight  of  him.  Mr.  MacDalie  saw  him.  He  chuckled  wildly 
and  the  laughter  swelled  into  a  roar.  Rising  from  the  top 
of  Ollie's  head  of  clipped  hair  was  a  diminutive  braided  lock 
about  three  inches  long,  tied  with  a  bow  of  narrow  red  rib 
bon.  And  Ollie  did  not  even  smile  while  Mr.  MacDalie  was 
wiping  his  eyes  before  him.  His  self-control  was  most 
admirable. 

The  laughter  finally  subsided,  for  the  time  being,  suffi 
ciently  to  permit  King  Ahasuerus  and  Queen  Esther  and 
Mordecai  and  Haman  to  hold  their  audience  spellbound  for 
five  minutes.  That  same  audience  had  been  held  spell 
bound  by  that  same  story  throughout  the  whole  of  the  year 
just  past  and  through  other  years;  for  Mr.  MacDalie,  for 
some  reason  known  only  to  himself  and  which  Sally  had 
tried  in  vain  to  guess,  had  confined  his  reading  so  completely 
to  the  Book  of  Esther  that  his  hearers  knew  the  book  pretty 
nearly  by  heart. 

Although  an  unnatural  solemnity  prevailed  through  the 
reading,  the  laughter  would  break  out  afresh  at  intervals 
during  the  morning.  Mr.  MacDalie  himself  resolutely 
avoided  looking  in  Ollie's  direction  as  long  as  he  remembered. 


162  CONCERNING  SALLY 

But  he  would  forget,  becoming  absorbed  in  his  teaching, 
and  his  eye  would  light  upon  Ollie ;  and  forthwith  he  would 
fall  to  chuckling  wildly  and  to  wiping  his  eyes,  and  be 
unable  to  continue  for  some  minutes.  He  said  nothing  to 
Ollie,  however,  although  that  youngster  expected  a  severe 
reprimand,  at  least.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  that  was  the 
very  reason  why  he  did  not  get  it.  The  next  day  the  braided 
lock  was  gone. 

These  were  mere  frivolities,  perhaps  unworthy  of  being 
recorded;  and  there  may  seem  to  be  an  undue  prominence 
given  to  mental  comparisons  with  Jane.  But  just  at  this 
time  there  was  a  good  deal  of  Jane  in  everything,  and  what 
ever  was  done  by  anybody  naturally  suggested  to  Sally  a 
comparison  with  what  Jane  would  do.  Sally  was  not  with 
out  her  share  of  romance,  which  was,  perhaps,  more  in 
evidence  at  this  age  than  at  any  other.  She  was  just  past 
sixteen,  and  she  happened  to  be  devoted,  at  this  period,  to 
her  English  history.  She  is  to  be  excused  for  her  flights  of 
imagination,  in  which  she  saw  Jane's  ancestry  traced  back, 
without  a  break,  to  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century; 
and  if  the  two  Spencers  of  that  time  were  not  very  credit 
able  ancestors,  why,  history  sometimes  distorts  things,  and 
if  Edward  II  had  chanced  to  prevail  over  his  wife  and  son, 
its  verdict  might  have  been  different.  Jane  was  not  respon 
sible  for  his  ancestors  anyway. 

Everybody  was  present  at  the  graduation  exercises; 
everybody,  that  is,  of  consequence  in  Whitby  who  was  not 
prevented  from  being  present  by  illness.  I  allude  more 
especially  to  the  older  generation,  to  the  generation  of 
parents.  All  the  mothers,  not  only  of  the  members  of  the 
graduating  class,  but  of  any  members  of  any  class  and  even 
of  prospective  members,  were  there  because  they  liked  to 
be ;  the  fathers  were  there  because  they  thought  they  ought 
to  be.  And  there  were  many  besides,  of  a  different  genera 
tion,  who  were  there  for  one  reason  or  another.  Mr.  Hazen 
was  one  of  these  and  Everett  Morton  was  another. 

It  was  easy  to  account  for  Mr.  Hazen's  presence,  but  not 


CONCERNING  SALLY  163 

so  easy  to  account  for  Everett's,  except  that  he  was  not 
doing  much  of  anything  and  thought  the  exercises  might 
prove  to  be  a  diversion.  Everett  spent  his  time,  for  the  most 
part,  in  the  pursuit  of  diversion.  He  was  through  college. 
That  does  not  mean  that  he  had  graduated,  but,  as  he  said, 
it  meant  that  he  had  left  it  in  his  sophomore  year,  upon 
the  breaking-out  of  the  Spanish  War,  to  volunteer ;  and  after 
a  hollow  and  bloodless  campaign  in  Porto  Rico,  he  had 
returned,  well  smeared  with  glory.  Fortunately  —  or  un 
fortunately,  as  you  look  at  it  —  he  had  escaped  the  camps. 
He  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  go  back  to  college,  and 
between  ourselves,  the  faculty  agreed  with  him  completely. 
It  was  the  only  instance  of  such  agreement  in  the  history  of 
their  connection.  Then  he  had  got  a  place  in  a  broker's 
office  which  he  held  for  a  year  and  a  half,  but  he  had  found 
it  not  to  his  liking  and  he  had  given  it  up.  Then  came  a 
long  interval  when  his  only  occupation  seemed  to  be  the 
pursuit  of  diversion.  This  was  in  the  interval.  No  doubt 
he  managed  to  capture,  occasionally,  the  elusive  diversion 
which  he  pursued  so  persistently,  and  no  doubt,  too,  it  was 
of  much  the  kind  that  is  usual  in  such  cases ;  but,  one  would 
think,  he  found  the  pursuit  of  it  an  occupation  more  stren 
uous  than  that  of  the  broker's  office. 

Dick  could  not  come,  for  he  was  to  have  a  graduation  of 
his  own  in  a  short  time;  in  fact,  it  was  hardly  more  than  a 
few  days.  But  he  sent  Sally  a  little  note,  regretting  that  he 
could  not  be  present  and  wishing  her  luck ;  and  further  and 
more  important,  he  asked  if  she  and  her  mother  or  Miss 
Patty  or  all  of  them  would  not  come  up  to  Cambridge  for 
his  Class  Day. 

Sally  had  got  Dick's  note  just  as  they  were  starting. 
She  handed  it  to  her  mother,  her  gray  eyes  soft  with  pleasure 
—  as  they  had  got  into  the  habit  of  being,  these  last  few 
years. 

"See,  mother,  dear,"  she  said,  "what  Dick  has  asked. 
Do  you  suppose  we  can  go,  mother,  or  would  it  be  too  much 
for  you?  I  should  like  to  go." 


164  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Mrs.  Ladue  smiled  fondly  at  her  daughter.  "Of  course 
you  would,  darling.  I'll  see  what  Patty  says,  but  I  guess 
you  can  go.  Perhaps,  if  Patty  does  n't  want  to,  I  can  get 
Doctor  Beatty  to  let  me.  I  believe  I  should  like  it  myself. 
Now,  don't  let  the  prospect  make  you  forget  your  part." 

"No  danger,"  replied  Sally  reassuringly.  "Now  I  must 
run." 

Sally  had  the  valedictory,  or  whatever  it  is  to  which  the 
first  scholar  in  the  class  is  entitled.  I  am  not  versed  in  such 
matters,  not  having  been  concerned,  at  my  graduation, 
with  the  duties  or  the  privileges  of  the  first  scholar  of  the 
class.  But  Sally  had  kept  her  place  at  the  head  of  a  dwind 
ling  class  with  no  difficulty  and  Mr.  MacDalie  expected 
great  things  of  her.  She  acquitted  herself  as  well  as  was 
expected,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal ;  and  after  the  exercises 
were  over,  she  went  out  with  Jane  Spencer,  leaving  her 
mother  and  Uncle  John  and  Mr.  MacDalie  talking  together. 
Patty  was  talking  with  Doctor  Beatty,  who  had  come  in 
late. 

Patty  glanced  up  at  Doctor  Beatty  with  a  smile.  "Does 
that  remind  you  of  anything?"  she  asked  gently,  nodding 
in  Sally's  direction. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  the  doctor  was  not  paying  attention. 
"What?"  He  brought  his  chair  and  his  gaze  down  together. 
He  had  been  tilting  back  in  the  chair  and  looking  at  the  ceil 
ing.  "What?  Sally?  Her  foot,  perhaps,  —  but  that's  all 
right  years  ago  and  it  is  n't  likely  that  you  meant  that. 
No,  Patty,  I  give  it  up.  What's  the  answer?" 

Miss  Patty  was  disappointed.  Perhaps  she  ought  to  have 
got  used  to  being  disappointed  by  Meriwether  Beatty,  by 
this  time,  but  she  had  n't.  She  sighed  a  little. 

"No,  I  did  n't  mean  her  foot.  I  meant  her  wandering  off 
with  Eugene  Spencer.  He 's  the  handsomest  boy  in  the  class. 
Does  n't  it  remind  you  of  —  of  our  own  graduation  and  our 
wandering  away  —  so?  "  • 

The  doctor  roared.  "That  was  a  good  many  years  ago, 
Patty."  It  was  unkind  of  him  to  remind  her  of  that.  "You 


CONCERNING   SALLY  165 

could  n't  expect  me  to  remember  the  circumstances.  I 
believe  I  am  losing  my  memory;  from  old  age,  Patty,  old 
age."  That  was  more  unkind  still,  for  Patty  was  but  a  few 
months  younger  than  he,  and  he  knew  it  and  she  knew  that 
he  knew  it.  "So  we  wandered  away,  did  we?" 

Sally  did  not  hear  this  conversation,  for  she  was  already 
halfway  downstairs  with  Jane.  Neither  of  them  had  spoken. 

"Jane,"  she  said  suddenly. 

A  shadow  of  annoyance  crossed  his  face.  "Sally,"  he 
mildly  protested,  "I  wish  you  would  n't  call  me  Jane  —  if 
you  don't  mind." 

"Why,"  returned  Sally  in  surprise,  "don't  you  like  it? 
I  supposed  you  did.  Of  course  I  won't  call  you  by  a  name 
you  don't  like.  I'm  very  sorry.  Eugene,  then?" 

"If  you  will.  It's  rather  better  than  Jane,  but  it's  bad 
enough." 

Sally  laughed.  "You're  hard  to  please.  How  would  it 
do  for  me  to  call  you  Hugh  —  or  Earl  Spencer.  Or,  no.  I  'd 
have  to  call  you  your  Grace."  She  stopped  and  made  him 
a  curtsy;  Jane  was  not  to  be  outdone  and,  although  taken 
somewhat  off  his  guard,  he  made  her  a  bow  with  as  much 
grace  as  even  Piers  Gaveston  could  have  put  into  it. 

"Your  Highness  does  me  too  much  honor,"  he  replied 
solemnly;  and  they  both  laughed  from  sheer  high  spirits. 
"No,  Sally,  you're  wrong."  he  added.  "The  old  gentleman 
was  no  relative  of  mine.  But  I  believe  I  interrupted  you. 
What  were  you  going  to  say  —  right  first  off,  you  know, 
when  I  asked  you  not  to  call  me  Jane?" 

"I  was  going  to  tell  you  that  Dick  Torrington  has  asked 
me  to  go  up  for  his  Class  Day." 

"Dick  Torrington!"  exclaimed  Jane,  mystified.  "Why, 
Sally,  he's  ever  so  much  older  than  you." 

"Now,  Jane,  what  has  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  —  Eugene, 
but  it's  hard  to  remember.  But,  Eugene,  what  has  the 
difference  in  age  to  do  with  it?  It  has  never  seemed  to  make 
any  difference  to  Dick.  You  know  that  he's  as  kind  as  he 
can  be  and  probably  he  just  thought  that  I  would  enjoy  it." 


1 66  CONCERNING  SALLY 

They  had  passed  through  the  crowded  corridor  — 
crowded  because,  in  one  of  the  rooms  on  that  floor,  there 
was  in  preparation  what  the  papers  would  call  a  modest 
collation  —  and  they  were  out  in  the  yard.  Jane  stopped 
short  and  looked  at  Sally  with  a  puzzled  expression. 

"I  wonder,  Sally,"  he  said  slowly,  "if  you  know  —  but 
you  evidently  don't,"  he  added.  He  seemed  relieved  at  the 
result  of  his  inspection.  "Of  course  you'll  go,  but  I  can't 
help  wishing  you  would  n't." 

"Why?"  she  asked.  "I  mean  to  go  if  I  can.  Why 
would  you  rather  I  would  n't?" 

He  hesitated  for  some  moments.  "I  don't  know  that  I 
can  tell  you.  Perhaps  you'll  understand  sometime.  Hello! 
What  do  you  suppose  they've  got?" 

Ollie  Pilcher  and  the  Carlings  passed  rapidly  across  their 
line  of  vision. 

"Furtive  sort  of  manner,"  continued  Jane  hurriedly. 
"I'll  bet  they're  hiding  something.  Let's  see  what  it  is. 
What  do  you  say,  Sally?" 

Sally  nodded  and  they  ran,  coming  upon  the  three  sud 
denly.  The  Carlings  started  guiltily  and  seemed  about  to 
say  something;  but  although  they  had  opened  their  mouths, 
no  speech  issued. 

"Sing  it,  you  twins.  What  have  you  got?  Come,  pony 
up.  We  spotted  you.  Or  perhaps  you  want  the  free-lunch 
committee  to  swoop  down  on  you." 

If  Sally  had  not  been  there  the  result  might  have  been 
different.  No  doubt  Jane  had  made  allowance  for  the 
moral  effect  of  her  presence.  The  Carlings,  severally,  were 
still  her  slaves;  or  they  would  have  been  if  she  had  let  them. 
They  grinned  sheepishly  and  Horry  drew  something  from 
under  his  jacket.  It  was  done  up  in  paper,  but  there  was  no 
mistaking  it. 

Jane  reached  forth  an  authoritative  hand.  Ollie  remon 
strated.  "I  say,  Jane,  — " 

"Filcher,"  remarked  Jane,  "for  filcher  you  are,  although 
you  may  have  persuaded  these  poor  innocent  boys  to  do  the 


CONCERNING  SALLY  167 

actual  filching  —  Filcher,  you  'd  better  suspend  further 
remarks.  Otherwise  I  shall  feel  obliged  to  divide  this  pie 
into  quarters  instead  of  fifths.  Quarters  are  much  easier. 
It  is  a  pie,  I  feel  sure;  a  squash  pie,  I  do  not  doubt.  Is  it 
quarters  or  fifths,  Filcher?" 

As  Jane  was  in  possession  of  the  pie,  Ollie  thought  it  the 
part  of  discretion  to  compromise.  A  clump  of  lilacs  hid 
them  from  the  schoolhouse,  and  Jane  divided  the  pie,  which 
proved  to  be  filled  with  raisins,  into  five  parts  with  his 
knife. 

"I  wish  to  congratulate  you,  Horry,  upon  your  excellent 
care  of  this  pie  in  transit."  He  passed  the  plate  to  Horry 
as  he  spoke.  "No,  this  is  your  piece,  Horry.  That  piece  is 
destined  for  me.  In  view  of  the  unavoidable  inequality  of 
the  pieces,  we  will  give  Filcher  the  plate." 

Sally  was  chuckling  as  she  ate  her  piece  of  pie,  which  she 
held  in  her  hand. 

"Th — th — this  w — w — weath — ther's  t — t — terrible 
h — h — hard  on  p — p — pies,"  observed  Horry  thoughtfully, 
after  a  long  silence. 

"  It  w — w — would  n't  k — k — keep,"  said  Harry,  wiping 
his  mouth  on  the  back  of  his  hand. 

"  It  would  n't,"  Jane  agreed. 

Ollie  was  scraping  the  plate.  "Can't  get  any  more  out  of 
that  plate,"  he  sighed  at  last;  and  he  scaled  the  tin  plate 
into  an  inaccessible  place  between  the  lilacs  and  the  fence. 

They  moved  away  slowly.  "I  wonder,"  Jane  remarked, 
reflectively,  "who  sent  that  pie." 

Sally  chuckled  again.   "Cousin  Patty  sent  it,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

SALLY  found  that  summer  very  full.  To  begin  with, 
there  was  Dick's  Class  Day,  which  was  her  first  great 
occasion.  I  do  not  know  what  better  to  call  it  and  it 
must  have  been  a  great  occasion  for  her,  for,  although  it 
did  not  last  very  long,  —  days  never  do,  —  the  memory  of 
it  has  not  completely  faded  even  yet;  and  it  was  twelve 
years  ago. 

As  if  to  make  her  joy  complete,  her  mother  had  gone  and 
Miss  Patty  had  not.  Not  that  Sally  had  ever  the  least  con 
scious  objection  to  Miss  Patty's  going  anywhere,  but  Patty 
always  acted  as  a  sort  of  damper  upon  too  much  joy.  Poor 
Patty !  She  had  not  the  slightest  wish  to  be  a  sort  of  a  dam 
per  and  she  did  not  suspect  that  she  was. 

Mrs.  Ladue  was  no  damper.  She  had  sat  in  Dick's  par 
ticular  easy-chair,  very  smiling  and  content,  while  Dick 
brought  things  to  eat  and  to  drink  to  her  and  to  Sally  in  the 
window-seat.  And  there  had  been  a  puzzled  look  in  Dick's 
eyes  all  the  time  that  made  Mrs.  Ladue  laugh  and  made 
Sally  blush  whenever  she  saw  it.  It  was  as  if  Dick's  eyes 
had  just  been  opened;  and  he  found  it  hard  to  realize  that 
the  blossoming  young  creature  in  his  window-seat  was  the 
same  Sally  that  he  had  known  so  well.  That  and  other 
considerations  will  explain  Mrs.  Ladue's  laughter  well 
enough,  but  hardly  explain  why  Sally  should  have  blushed. 
I  don't  know  why  she  did  and  I  doubt  if  she  could  have  told. 

Then  —  for  Dick's  Class  Day  was  only  to  begin  with  — 
there  were  his  further  good-natured  attentions,  which  did 
not  mean  anything,  of  course,  Mrs.  Ladue  told  herself, 
over  and  over.  Of  course  Dick  liked  Sally  —  who  would 
not?  And  there  was  more  fun  in  doing  anything  for  her  than 
in  doing  it  for  anybody  else,  for  Sally  enjoyed  everything 


CONCERNING  SALLY  169 

so  much.  Dick  even  took  her  sailing  half  a  dozen  times, 
although  there  was  nobody  else  on  his  parties  younger  than 
his  sister  Emily.  And  there  was  Jane;  but  not  on  Dick's 
sailing  parties. 

Jane's  attentions  to  Sally  were  constant  and  rather  jeal 
ous.  How  could  he  help  it?  Dick  was  five  years  older  than 
he,  and,  at  seventeen,  five  years  is  a  tremendous  advantage 
and  one  not  to  be  made  up  by  a  difference  in  natural  gifts, 
concerning  which  there  could  be  no  doubt  either.  Sally  had 
some  difficulty  in  keeping  Jane  pacified.  She  may  have  made 
no  conscious  effort  to  that  end,  but  she  accomplished  it, 
none  the  less. 

When  fall  came,  Sally  went  away  to  Normal  School.  It 
was  not  far  from  Whitby,  so  that  she  was  always  within 
reach,  but  she  had  to  be  away  from  home  —  Uncle  John 
Hazen's  was  really  home  now  —  for  the  greater  part  of  two 
years.  Her  absence  was  a  great  grief  to  Uncle  John,  although 
nobody  suspected  it  but  Sally.  It  would  never  have  occurred 
to  Patty  that  it  could  make  much  difference  to  her  father 
whether  Sally  was  here  or  there.  Indeed,  she  did  not  think 
of  it  at  all,  being  more  than  ever  engrossed  in  Charlie's 
career;  and  Charlie  was  in  need  of  a  friend,  although  that 
friend  was  not  Miss  Patty. 

Another  person  who  missed  Sally's  presence,  if  one  could 
judge  from  his  behavior,  was  Jane  Spencer.  To  be  sure,  it 
could  have  made  little  difference  to  him  that  she  was  no 
longer  in  Whitby,  except  that  Whitby,  although  farther 
from  Cambridge  than  Schoolboro',  was  easier  to  get  to. 
Nevertheless,  as  soon  as  Jane  could  snatch  a  day  from  his 
arduous  academic  duties,  he  went  to  Schoolboro'  and  not  to 
Whitby.  That  was  hardly  a  month  after  Sally  had  gone 
there,  and  she  was  unaffectedly  glad  to  see  him.  Therefore, 
Jane  enjoyed  his  visit  immensely,  and  he  made  other  visits, 
which  were  also  to  his  immense  satisfaction,  as  often  as 
Sally  would  let  him  come.  There  were  four  that  year. 

In  November  of  her  second  year,  Sally  was  called  home 
unexpectedly  by  an  incoherent  summons  from  Patty.  She 


170  CONCERNING  SALLY 

hurried  home,  filled  with  fears  and  misgivings.  What  had 
happened  to  Charlie?  She  had  no  doubt  that  Charlie  was 
at  the  bottom  of  it,  somehow,  or  it  would  not  have  been 
Patty  who  sent  the  message.  Had  he  had  an  accident?  But 
Charlie  himself  met  her  at  the  door,  looking  sulky  and 
triumphant. 

Patty  was  almost  hysterical,  and  it  was  a  long  time 
before  Sally  could  make  out  what  was  the  matter.  It  seemed 
that  Charlie  had  been  subjected  to  the  usual  mild  hazing 
and,  proving  a  refractory  subject,  he  had  had  his  hands  and 
feet  strapped  together  and  had  been  left  lying  helpless  in 
the  yard.  That  was  a  final  indignity,  reserved  for  boys  who 
had  earned  the  thorough  dislike  of  their  fellows,  Sally  knew. 
She  was  deeply  mortified. 

Her  lips  were  compressed  in  the  old  way  that  she  had 
almost  forgotten. 

"I  will  settle  it,  Cousin  Patty.   It  won't  take  long." 

Patty  had,  perhaps,  mistaken  the  meaning  of  Sally's 
expression.  At  all  events,  Sally  looked  very  decided,  which 
Patty  was  not. 

"Oh,  will  you,  Sally?  I  felt  sure  that  you  would  be 
touched  by  Charlie's  sufferings.  He  is  your  brother,  you 
know,  and  —  and  all  that,"  she  finished,  ineffectively,  as 
she  was  painfully  aware. 

"Yes,"  Sally  replied,  still  with  that  compression  of  the 
lips,  "he  is."  She  had  been  about  to  say  more,  but  had 
thought  better  of  it. 

"Well,"  said  Patty,  after  waiting  some  time  for  Sally  to 
say  what  she  had  decided  not  to,  "thank  you,  Sally.  No 
body  else  could  attend  to  it  so  well  as  you."  At  which 
speech  Sally  smiled  rather  grimly,  if  a  girl  of  seventeen  can 
smile  grimly.  Her  smile  was  as  grim  as  the  circumstances 
would  allow. 

She  found  Charlie  suspiciously  near  the  door. 

"Will  you  go  and  see  old  Mac,  Sally?  Will  you?" 

"You  come  into  the  back  parlor  with  me,  Charlie,"  Sally 
answered,  "and  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  171 

When  Charlie  emerged,  half  an  hour  later,  he  was  sulkier 
than  ever,  but  he  was  no  longer  triumphant.  Sally  went 
back  to  school  that  same  night.  Patty  did  not  summon  her 
again.  Sally  had  a  way  of  settling  things  which  Miss  Patty 
did  not  altogether  like. 

Now  it  chanced  that  Jane  chose  the  next  day  for  one  of 
his  visits.  It  was  not  a  happy  chance.  The  day  itself  was 
dull  and  gloomy  and  chilly  and  Sally  had  not  yet  got  over 
the  settling  of  Charlie.  Jane,  to  be  sure,  did  not  know  about 
Charlie,  but  it  would  have  made  no  difference  if  he  had 
known  about  him.  Sally  greeted  him  with  no  enthusiasm; 
it  almost  seemed  to  Jane  that  she  would  rather  not  have 
seen  him. 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "  What 's  the  matter,  Sally?  " 
he  asked.  "Why  this  —  this  apathy?"  He  had  been  about 
to  call  it  indifference,  but  decided  against  it. 

Jane  was  not  without  wisdom,  if  he  did  not  show  much  of 
it  on  this  particular  day.  If  it  had  been  the  case  of  another 
and  that  other  had  asked  his  advice,  he  would  have  advised 
him  to  drop  it  all  and  go  home  again.  But,  in  our  own  cases, 
we  are  all  more  or  less  fools.  Therefore  Jane  did  not  drop 
it  all  and  go  home. 

Sally  did  not  smile.  "I  don't  know,  Jane,"  she  replied. 
"  There 's  nothing  in  particular  the  matter."  Sally  had  given 
up  the  attempt  to  break  the  Jane  habit  and  Jane  had  given 
up  objecting. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  after  waiting  vainly  for  her  to  propose 
a  walk.  "Shall  we  go  for  our  usual  walk?  You  know  you 
don't  like  to  stay  in,  and  neither  do  I." 

"I  think,"  said  Sally,  "that  I  don't  like  anything  to-day, 
so  what  does  it  matter?"  Surely  Jane  should  have  taken 
warning  and  run.  "We'll  go  out  if  you  like." 

Jane  looked  at  her  doubtfully,  but  said  nothing,  which 
was  probably  the  best  thing  he  could  have  said;  and  they 
went  out,  walking  side  by  side,  in  silence,  until  they  came 
to  a  little  stream  which  was  dignified  by  the  name  of  "The 
River."  There  was  a  path  along  the  bank.  That  path  by 


172  CONCERNING  SALLY 

the  river  was  much  frequented  at  other  seasons,  but  now  the 
trees  that  overhung  it  were  bare  and  the  wind  sighed  mourn 
fully  through  the  branches,  after  its  journey  across  the 
desolate  marsh  beyond.  On  such  a  day  it  was  not  a  place  to 
cheer  drooping  spirits.  It  did  not  cheer  Sally's. 

Jane's  spirit  began  to  be  affected.  He  looked  at  Sally 
anxiously,  but  she  gave  no  sign  of  ever  meaning  to  say 
another  word. 

"Sally!"  he  said. 

She  glanced  at  him  and  tried  to  smile,  but  she  made  no 
great  success  of  it. 

"Well?" 

"Now,  what  is  the  matter,  Sally?  Won't  you  tell  me?" 

"There's  nothing  the  matter,  Jane.  I'm  simply  not  in 
very  good  spirits." 

"Sally,"  said  poor  Jane  softly,  "please  cheer  up  and  be 
light-hearted.  This  is  n't  like  you  at  all." 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  Sally  answered,  sighing.  "  I  Ve  tried.  It 
does  n't  happen  to  me  often.  I  'm  not  good  company,  am  I  ?  " 

"You're  always  good  company  for  me,"  Jane  said  simply. 
Sally  did  not  seem  to  hear.  "Try  a  pleasant  expression," 
he  continued,  after  a  pause,  "and  see  what  that  does  to 
your  spirits." 

"Thank  you,"  said  she  coldly,  "for  nothing."  Then  she 
changed  suddenly.  "I  beg  your  pardon  again,  Eugene.  I 
was  getting  ill-tempered.  Would  you  have  me  put  on  a 
pleasant  expression  when  I  don't  feel  like  it?" 

He  nodded,  smiling.  "To  see  the  effect  upon  your  spirits." 

"As  if  I  were  having  my  photograph  taken?"  Sally  went 
on,  "A  sort  of  'keep  smiling'  expression?  Think  how 
absurd  people  would  look  if  they  went  about  grinning." 

"There  is  a  certain  difference  between  grinning  and  smil 
ing,"  Jane  replied,  "although  I  can't  define  it.  And  you 
would  not  look  absurd,  Sally,  whatever  you  did." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  would,"  Sally  said,  more  cheerfully  than  she 
had  spoken  yet,  "and  so  would  you.  No  doubt  I  am  absurd 
very  often;  as  absurd  as  you  are  now." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  173 

Jane  sighed  heavily.  "  I  Ve  never  seen  it,  Sally,  although 
I  should  like  to  see  you  absurd  in  the  same  way  that  I  am 
now.  I  long  to.  You  could  n't  be,  I  suppose." 

There  was  no  answer  to  this  remark.  Waiting  for  one  and 
listening,  Jane  heard  only  the  sighing  of  the  wind  across  the 
desolate  marsh  and  in  the  trees,  and  the  soft  noise  of  the 
water  flowing  past.  Poor  Jane  was  very  wretched,  largely, 
no  doubt,  because  of  the  dreary  day  and  because  Sally  was 
wretched.  He  did  not  stop  to  ask  why.  Then  he  did  some 
thing  which  was  very  unwise.  Even  he,  in  more  sober 
moments,  acknowledged  its  unwisdom.  But,  after  all,  would 
it  have  made  any  great  difference  if  the  circumstances  had 
been  different  —  Sally  being  what  she  was?  I  think  not. 
Jane  thought  not. 

Jane  leaned  a  little  nearer.  "Sally,"  he  said  softly,  "can't 
you  like  me  a  little?  Can't  you  — " 

Sally  looked  up  in  surprise.  "Why,  Jane,"  she  replied 
simply  —  and  truthfully,  "I  do  like  you.  You  know  it." 

"But,  Sally,"  —  Jane's  heart  was  pounding  so  that  he 
could  not  keep  the  sound  of  it  out  of  his  voice,  and  his 
voice  was  unsteady  enough  without  that,  —  "but,  Sally, 
can't  you  —  can't  you  care  for  me?  I  —  I  love  you,  Sally. 
I  could  n't  keep  it  to  myself  any  longer.  I  — " 

"Oh,  Jane!"  Sally  was  the  picture  of  dismay;  utter  and 
absolute  dismay.  She  had  withdrawn  from  him  a  little. 
And  she  had  forgotten  the  state  of  her  spirits.  She  was 
startled  out  of  her  apathy.  "I  did  n't  know  you  were  go 
ing  to  say  that.  Why,  oh,  why  did  you?  What  made 
you?" 

"I  simply  had  to.  I  have  been  holding  it  in  as  long  as  I 
could,  and  I  could  n't  see  you  feeling  so,  without  —  well, 
I  had  to."  Jane  spoke  more  rapidly  now.  "And,  Sally,  I 
realize  the  absurdity  of  asking  you  now,  when  I  am  not  half 
through  college  and  you  are  not  through  school,  but  we 
could  wait  —  could  n't  we?  —  and  if  you  only  felt  as  I  do, 

it  would  be  easier.    I  am  —  I  shall  have  some  money  and 
T »» 


174  CONCERNING  SALLY 

With  an  impatient  wave  of  her  hand  Sally  brushed  all 
that  aside. 

"That  is  of  no  consequence,"  she  said,  —  "of  no  sort  of 
consequence.  But  why  did  you  do  it,  Jane?  Oh,  why  did 
you?  You  have  spoiled  it  all.  I  suppose  we  can't  be  good 
friends  any  more."  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"I  can't  see  why."  Jane  regarded  her  for  some  while 
without  speaking.  Sally,  I  suppose,  had  nothing  to  say. 
"Does  that  mean,"  he  asked  at  last,  "that  you  don't  care 
for  me  in  the  way  that  I  want?" 

"I  should  think  you  would  know,"  replied  Sally  gently. 

"And  —  and  you  can't?" 

Sally  shook  her  head. 

"Not  ever?" 

Sally  shook  her  head  again. 

Jane  stood,  for  a  minute,  gazing  out  over  the  desolate 
marsh.  Then  he  drew  a  long  breath  and  turned. 

"Well,"  he  said,  smiling  mirthlessly  and  raising  his  hat, 
"shall  I  —  shall  we  go  back?" 

Sally  was  angry,  but  I  don't  know  what  for.  "No,"  she 
was  decided  about  it;  much  more  decided  than  was  at  all 
necessary.  "You  need  not  trouble  to  go  back  with  me." 

"Oh,"  said  Jane.  He  smiled  again  and  flushed  slowly. 
"Then,  if  you  will  excuse  me,  I  will  go  to  the  station." 

So  Jane  was  gone  —  or  going  —  with  head  held  high  and 
a  flush  on  his  face.  He  did  not  look  back.  Sally,  as  she 
watched  him  go,  had  a  revulsion  of  feeling  and  would  have 
called  to  him.  To  what  end?  She  could  not  change  her 
answer.  And  the  sound  died  on  her  lips  and  she  stamped 
her  foot  angrily,  and  watched  him  out  of  sight.  Then  she 
fled  to  her  room  and  wept.  Why,  I  wonder?  Sally  did  not 
know.  Suddenly  she  had  lost  something  out  of  her  life. 
What?  Sally  did  not  know  that  either.  It  was  not  Jane  she 
wept  for.  Whatever  it  was,  she  knew  that  she  could  never 
get  it  back  again;  never,  never. 


BOOK   III 


CHAPTER  I 

MRS.  LADUE  was  sitting  in  her  room  with  a  letter  in  her 
lap.  The  letter  was  unfinished  and  it  seemed  likely 
that  it  might  not  be  finished;  not,  at  any  rate, 
unless  Mrs.  Ladue  brought  her  wandering  thoughts  back 
to  it,  although,  to  be  sure,  her  thoughts  may  have  had  more 
to  do  with  it  than  appeared.  She  was  gazing  absently  out 
of  the  window  and  in  her  eyes  there  was  a  look  both  tender 
and  sad;  a  look  that  said  plainly  that  her  thoughts  were 
far  away  and  that  she  was  recalling  some  things  —  pleasant 
things  and  sad  —  dwelling  upon  them  with  fond  recollec 
tion,  no  doubt.  It  was  a  pity  that  she  had  not  more  things 
which  could  be  dwelt  upon  with  fond  recollection;  but  it 
may  be  that  she  was  dwelling  fondly  upon  the  recollection 
of  what  might  have  been.  There  is  much  comfort  to  be  got 
out  of  that  kind  of  recollection  even  if  it  is  not  very  real. 

What  was  before  her  eyes  was  the  Lot  covered  with  un 
touched  snow  billowed  by  the  high  wind  and  glistening, 
here  and  there,  where  that  same  wind  had  hardened  and 
polished  the  surface  into  a  fine  crust.  There  was  the  same 
high  wall,  its  cement  covering  a  trifle  less  smooth,  perhaps, 
than  it  had  been  when  Sally  first  saw  it,  but  giving  a  scant 
foothold  even  yet.  And  the  wall  was  capped,  as  it  had  been 
since  it  was  built,  with  its  projecting  wooden  roof,  more 
weather-beaten  than  ever  and  with  the  moulding  on  the 
under  edges  warped  away  a  trifle  more,  but  still  holding. 
There  was  snow  upon  that  old  roof  in  patches,  but  the  wind 
had  swept  most  of  it  clean.  And  over  it  all  was  a  dull, 
leaden  sky  with  more  snow  in  it. 

Although  all  this  was  before  her  eyes,  she  may  not  have 
seen  any  of  it;  probably  she  had  not.  Judging  from  her  look, 
it  was  something  quite  different  that  she  saw.  It  may  have 


178  CONCERNING  SALLY 

been  the  early  years  of  her  marriage  —  very  early  years 
they  must  have  been  and  very  far  away  now  —  when  Pro 
fessor  Ladue  was  still  good  to  her  and  she  still  believed  in 
him.  Or,  perhaps,  she  was  passing  in  review  the  many  kind 
nesses  of  Uncle  John  Hazen  and  Patty.  For  Patty  had  been 
kind  in  her  own  way;  and  what  other  way  could  she  use? 
Every  one  of  us  has  to  be  kind  or  unkind  in  his  own  way, 
after  all,  in  accordance  with  the  natures  God  has  given  us. 
Perhaps  Mrs.  Ladue  was  thinking  of  Doctor  Galen's  care 
—  four  years  of  it  —  or  of  Fox's  goodness.  Fox  had  not  got 
over  being  good  to  them  yet.  And  she  called  down  blessings 
on  his  head  and  sighed  a  tremulous  sigh,  and  looked  down 
at  the  letter  which  she  had  held  in  her  hand  all  this  time, 
and  she  began  to  read  it  again,  although  she  had  already 
read  it  over  twice. 

She  had  not  got  very  far  with  her  reading  when  the  front 
door  opened  and  shut.  At  the  sound  of  it  Mrs.  Ladue  came 
back,  with  a  start,  to  the  present.  She  flushed  slightly  and 
made  a  motion  as  if  to  hide  the  letter  hastily;  but  she 
thought  better  of  it  instantly,  and  she  held  the  letter  in  her 
hand,  as  she  had  done  for  some  time.  But  the  flush  grew 
and  flooded  her  face  with  color.  And  the  wave  of  color 
receded,  according  to  the  manner  of  waves,  and  left  her 
face  unnaturally  pale.  There  was  the  sound  of  steps  on  the 
stairs  and  the  door  of  the  room  opened  and  Sally  came  in. 

A  breath  of  the  cold  still  clung  about  her.  "Well,  mother, 
dear,"  she  said,  stooping  for  a  kiss,  "here  I  am,  at  last.  I 
thought  I  never  should  get  out  to-day." 

"Some  poor  infants  have  to  stay  after?"  asked  her 
mother.  "How  cold  you  are,  Sally!  Is  it  as  bleak  and 
dreary  as  it  looks?" 

"Oh,  no.  It's  nice  enough,  after  you've  been  out  a  few 
minutes.  At  least  it's  fresh,  and  that's  something,  after 
hours  of  a  schoolroom.  And  I  don't  teach  infants,  if  you 
please,  madam." 

Mrs.  Ladue  laughed  quietly.  "It's  all  the  same  to  me, 
Sally,"  she  replied.  "I  don't  know  the  difference." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  179 

Sally  sat  down  on  the  bed ;  which  was  a  very  reprehensible 
old  habit  that  she  had  never  been  able  to  shake  off.  Not 
that  she  had  ever  tried. 

"  I  'm  going  to  get  something  done  about  the  ventilation," 
she  observed  decidedly;  "at  least  in  my  room.  It's  wicked 
to  make  children  breathe  such  air."  She  glanced  at  the 
letter  which  her  mother  still  held.  "Been  writing  letters, 
mother?  Who  to  —  if  you  don't  mind  my  asking?" 

"'Who  to,'  Sally!  A  fine  schoolmarm  you  are!"  said 
Mrs.  Ladue,  smiling,  in  mock  reproach.  "  I  hope  that  is  not 
the  example  you  set." 

Sally  laughed  lightly.  "It  was  pretty  bad,  wasn't  it? 
But  there  are  times  when  even  the  schoolmarm  must  relax. 
It  has  n't  got  into  my  blood  yet,  and  I  'm  not  a  universal 
compendium.  But  I  noticed  that  you  did  n't  answer  my 
question.  You  may  have  objected  to  its  form.  To  whom  is 
your  letter  written?" 

"Well,"  her  mother  answered,  hesitating  a  little,  "it 
is  n't  written  yet.  That  is,  it  is  n't  finished.  It  is  to  Fox. 
Don't  you  want  to  add  something,  dear?  Just  a  few  lines? 
I  have  asked  him  if  he  does  n't  want  to  come  on  —  and 
bring  Henrietta,  of  course.  See,  there  is  room  at  the  end." 

Sally  took  the  letter,  but  she  could  not  have  read  more 
than  the  first  two  or  three  lines  when  she  glanced  up,  with 
a  little  half  smile  of  surprise  and  amusement. 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  not  read  it,  mother,  dear,"  she 
said  gently.  "Did  you  mean  that  I  should?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  Mrs.  Ladue  answered  carelessly,  "read  it  if 
you  like.  There  is  nothing  in  my  letters  to  Fox  that  I  want 
to  keep  secret  from  you,  Sally." 

There  was  the  same  little  half  smile  of  amusement  on 
Sally's  lips  as  she  read,  and  a  sort  of  suppressed  twinkle  in 
her  eyes.  If  you  wanted  to  know  what  Sally's  thoughts  were 
—  what  kind  of  thoughts  —  you  would  soon  have  got  into 
the  habit  of  watching  her  eyes.  They  were  merry  and 
grave  and  appealing  and  solemn  and  tender  and  reproachful 
and  thoughtful  and  disapproving,  according  to  the  need  of 


i8o  CONCERNING  SALLY 

the  hour,  although  they  were  seldom  solemn  or  sad  now.  I 
suppose  the  need  of  the  hour  did  not  lie  in  that  direction 
now;  at  least,  not  nearly  so  of  ten  as  it  had,  ten  years  before. 
Sally's  eyes  were  well  worth  watching  anyway.  They  were 
gray  and  rather  solemn,  normally,  shaded  by  long,  dark 
lashes,  and  gave  the  impression  of  darkness  and  depth ;  but 
when  she  was  stirred  to  anger,  whether  righteous  or  not, 
they  could  be  as  cold  and  as  hard  as  steel.  But  enough  of 
Sally's  eyes.  Too  much,  no  doubt. 

Mrs.  Ladue's  reflections,  as  Sally  read,  might  be  sup 
posed  to  have  been  rather  disquieting.  They  were  not. 
Presently  she  laughed.  "The  letter  may  seem  queer,"  she 
said,  "but  you  must  remember  that  I  have  not  seen  Fox  for 
four  years,  and  I  want  to  see  him.  I  got  very  fond  of  Fox 
in  my  years  at  Doctor  Galen's." 

Sally  looked  up.  "Of  course  you  did,  mother,  dear.  Of 
course  you  did.  It  would  be  very  strange  if  you  had  not. 
I  am  fond  of  him,  too." 

Mrs.  Ladue  smiled  in  reply  and  Sally  returned  to  her 
reading.  She  began  again  at  the  beginning,  with  the  "Dear 
Fox." 

"Dear  Fox:"  she  read.  She  was  not  reading  aloud.  "To 
begin  with  what  should  come  last,  according  to  all  the  rules, 
in  a  woman's  letter,  I  want  to  see  you.  It  is  the  sole  purpose 
of  this  letter  to  tell  you  that,  so  you  need  not  look  for  the 
important  matter  in  a  postscript.  It  won't  be  there,  for  it 
is  here.  Do  you  know  that  it  is  nearly  four  years  since  you 
were  here?  Is  there  no  matter  in  connection  with  my  trifling 
affairs  that  will  serve  as  an  excuse  —  or  is  any  excuse 
needed?  Can't  you  and  Henrietta  come  on  for  a  long 
visit?  I  know  the  engagements  of  a  doctor  —  such  a  doctor, 
Fox!  —  are  heavy  and  that  I  am  very  selfish  to  ask  it. 
Sally  would  be  as  glad  as  I  should  be  to  see  you  both  here, 
I  am  sure.  I  will  ask  her  to  add  a  few  lines  to  this  when  she 
comes  in.  She  has  not  got  back  from  school  yet. 

"Sally  seems  to  be  quite  happy  in  her  teaching.  I  remem 
ber  when  she  got  her  first  month's  salary  —  she  got  a  posi- 


CONCERNING  SALLY  181 

tion  right  away,  with  Mr.  MacDalie  —  she  came  flying 
into  the  house  and  met  Uncle  John  in  the  hall  —  I  was 
halfway  down  the  stairs  —  and  threw  her  arms  around  his 
neck.  The  dear  old  man  was  startled,  as  he  might  well  have 
been.  I  may  have  told  you  all  this  before.  If  I  have,  don't 
read  it.  Well,  he  was  startled,  as  I  said,  but  he  smiled  his 
lovely,  quiet  smile. 

'"Bless  me,  Sally!'  he  said.  'What's  happened?  What's 
the  matter?' 

'"This  is  the  matter,'  she  cried,  waving  something  about, 
somewhere  behind  his  ear.  '  I  've  got  my  salary.  And  it 's 
all  my  own  and  the  first  money  I  ever  earned  in  my  whole 
life.'  ' 

"The  dear  old  man  smiled  again  —  or  rather  he  had  n't 
stopped  smiling.  'Bless  your  heart!'  he  said.  'What  a 
terribly  long  time  to  wait,  isn't  it?  But  it's  hardly  true 
that  it  is  the  first  money  you  ever  earned.  The  first  you 
ever  were  paid,  perhaps,  but  you've  been  earning  it  for 
years,  my  dear,  for  years.' 

"Sally  kissed  him.  'I'm  afraid  you're  partial,  Uncle 
John.  But  do  you  know  what  I'm  going  to  do  with  my 
munificent  salary?' 

"Uncle  John  shook  his  head. 

"'I  should  like  to  pay  it  to  you,  on  account,'  said  Sally. 
'Oh,  I'm  not  going  to,'  she  added  hastily,  seeing  that  he 
looked  hurt,  'but  I'm  going  to  pay  for  all  my  clothes,  after 
this,  and  mother's  and  Charlie's.  I'm  afraid  it  won't  do 
much  more,  yet  awhile,  but  give  us  pocket-money.' 

'"Very  well,  Sally,  if  that  will  give  you  pleasure,'  said 
Uncle  John.  '  I  like  to  pay  for  your  clothes,  my  dear,  but 
just  as  you  please.' 

"Those  are  sentiments  which  a  girl  does  not  often  hear. 
Have  you,  perhaps,  said  to  somebody  —  but  I  won't  ask. 
Sally's  salary  is  enough  to  do  much  more  than  pay  for  our 
clothes  now. 

"Charlie  goes  to  college  this  next  fall.  I  think  there  is 
little  or  no  doubt  of  his  getting  in.  He  did  very  well  with  his 


1 82  CONCERNING  SALLY 

preliminaries  last  June.  He  is  very  bright,  I  think,  but  I 
sometimes  tremble  to  think  of  all  that  lies  before  him.  Do 
you  realize,  Fox,  that  Sally  is  almost  twenty-one  and  that 
it  is  ten  years  —  almost  ten  years  —  since  that  terrible  time 
when  — ' ' 

The  letter  broke  off  here.  That  last  sentence  must  have 
started  Mrs.  Ladue  upon  her  gazing  out  of  the  window. 

Sally  looked  up  soberly.  "  I  '11  add  my  request  to  yours,  if 
you  like,"  she  remarked;  "but  it's  hardly  likely  that  Fox 
will  come  just  because  we  ask  him  —  in  the  middle  of  winter. 
He  must  be  very  busy.  But  I  hope  he'll  come.  I  should 
dearly  like  to  see  him  —  and  Henrietta,  of  course  —  "  She 
interrupted  herself. 

"Have  you  spoken  to  Patty  about  Fox,  mother?"  she 
asked,  —  "about  his  coming  here?" 

Her  mother  smiled  whimsically.  "Not  exactly  to  Patty," 
she  replied.  "I  spoke  to  Uncle  John." 

"That  is  the  same  thing,  in  effect,"  said  Sally,  chuckling. 
"Much  the  same  thing,  but  speaking  to  Patty  might  save 
her  self-respect." 

"I  thought,"  Mrs.  Ladue  suggested  gently,  "that  if  the 
idea  seemed  to  come  from  Uncle  John  it  would  do  that.  It  is 
a  little  difficult  to  convince  Patty  and  —  and  I  did  n't  like 
to  seem  to  press  the  matter." 

Sally  bent  forward  and  kissed  her.  "I  beg  your  pardon," 
she  said.  "No  doubt  you  are  right." 

She  took  the  pen  and  wrote  a  few  lines  in  her  firm,  clear 
hand.  Then  she  tossed  the  letter  into  her  mother's  lap  and 
sat  silent,  gazing  out  of  the  window,  in  her  turn,  at  the  old, 
familiar  wall  and  at  the  snow  beyond. 

"Mother,"  she  asked  suddenly,  "what  would  you  do  — 
what  would  you  like  to  do  if  father  should  happen  to  turn 
up?" 

Her  mother  was  startled  out  of  her  usual  calm.  Her  hand 
went  up  instinctively  to  her  heart  and  she  flushed  and  grew 
pale  again  and  she  looked  frightened. 

"Why,  Sally,"  she  said.  She  seemed  to  have  trouble  with 


CONCERNING  SALLY  183 

her  breathing.  "Why,  Sally,  he  hasn't  —  you  don't 
mean  — " 

Apparently  she  could  not  go  on.  "No,  no,"  Sally  assured 
her  nastily,  "he  has  n't.  At  least,  he  has  n't  that  I  know  of." 

"Oh."  It  was  evidently  a  great  relief  to  Mrs.  Ladue  to 
know  that  he  had  n't.  The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes 
and  dropped  slowly  upon  the  open  letter  in  her  hand  as 
she  spoke.  "I  —  thought  —  I  thought  that  —  that  —  per 
haps—" 

Sally  understood.  "Oh,  mother,  dear,  I  only  wanted  to 
know  what  you  would  do  —  what  you  would  want  to  do. 
The  thought  occurred  to  me  suddenly.  I  don't  know  why." 

"  I  don't  know,  Sally.  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  we  ought 
to  go  back  to  him.  But  I  don't  know." 

Sally  laughed  and  her  eyes  were  cold  and  hard.  If  Mr. 
Ladue  had  heard  that  laugh  and  seen  her  eyes,  I  think  he 
would  not  ask  Sally  to  go  back  to  him.  "Oh,"  she  said 
lightly  —  but  her  voice  was  as  hard  as  her  eyes — "oh, 
there  is  no  doubt  about  what  I  would  do.  I  would  never  go 
back  to  him;  never  at  all.  You  should  n't,  either,  mother. 
So  put  that  bugaboo  out  of  your  mind.  I  hope  he  won't 
ever  turn  up,  not  ever." 

Mrs.  Ladue  laughed  and  her  laugh  was  ready  and  cheer 
ful  enough.  "Oh,  Sally,"  she  said,  mildly  remonstrating, 
"we  ought  not  to  say  that.  We  ought  not  even  to  think  it." 

"We  poor  mortals  seldom  do  as  we  ought,  mother,  dear," 
Sally  replied  lightly.  "You  need  n't  have  that  fear  a  single 
minute  longer." 


CHAPTER  II 

MUCH  to  Sally's  surprise,  Fox  came  on  and  he  brought 
Henrietta. 
"  Doctor  Sanderson's  engagements  cannot  be  very 
pressing,"  she  said  to  him,  smiling,  as  she  gave  him  her 
hand,  "to  permit  of  his  coming  several  hundred  miles  merely 
to  see  two  lone  women." 

Now  Doctor  Sanderson's  engagements,  as  it  chanced,  were 
rather  pressing;  and  it  was  a  fair  inference  from  Sally's 
words  that  she  was  not  as  glad  to  see  him  as  he  wished  and 
had  hoped.  But  her  smile  belied  her  words. 

"Miss  Ladue  forgets,  perhaps,"  he  replied,  bowing  rather 
formally,  "that  most  of  our  patients  are  women,  lone  or 
otherwise,  and  that  it  is  all  in  the  way  of  business  to  travel 
several  hundred  miles  to  see  them  —  and  to  charge  for  it. 
Although  there  are  not  many  that  I  would  take  that  trouble 
for,"  he  added,  under  his  breath.  "So  look  out,  Sally,"  he 
concluded  gayly,  "and  wait  until  our  bill  comes  in." 

That  sobered  Sally.  "Oh,  Fox,"  she  said,  "we  owe  you 
enough  already."  Which  was  not  what  he  had  bargained 
for.  Sally  was  looking  at  him  thoughtfully  and  seemed  to 
be  calculating.  "Perhaps,"  she  began,  "I  could  manage 
to—" 

"Sally,"  he  interrupted  hastily  —  he  seemed  even  fierce 
about  it  —  "Sally,  I  'd  like  to  shake  you." 

Sally  laughed  suddenly.  "Why  don't  you?"  she  asked. 
"I've  no  doubt  it  would  do  me  good." 

"That's  better,"  Fox  went  on,  with  evident  satisfaction. 
"You  seem  to  be  coming  to  your  senses."  Sally  laughed 
again.  "That's  still  better.  Now,  aren't  you  glad  to  see 
me?" 

"Why,  of  course  I  am." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  185 

"Then,  why  did  n't  you  say  so?"  he  challenged.  "Merely 
to  gratify  my  curiosity,  tell  me  why  you  did  n't." 

"Why  didn't  you?"  Sally  retorted,  still  chuckling  a 
little. 

Fox  looked  blank.  "Didn't  I?  Is  it  possible  that  I 
omitted  to  state  such  an  obvious  truth?" 

Sally  nodded.  She  was  looking  past  him.  "Oh,"  she  cried 
quickly,  "there's  Henrietta." 

"Another  obvious  truth,"  he  murmured,  more  to  himself 
than  to  Sally.  "There's  Henrietta." 

Henrietta  came  quickly  forward ;  indeed,  she  was  running. 
And  Sally  met  her.  Sally  was  quick  enough,  but  she  seemed 
slow  in  comparison  with  Henrietta. 

"Sally,  dear!"  exclaimed  Henrietta,  kissing  her  on  both 
cheeks.  "How  glad  I  am  to  see  you!  You  can't  imagine."- 
Which  was  a  statement  without  warrant  of  fact.  If  there 
was  one  thing  that  Sally  could  do  better  than  another,  it 
was  to  imagine.  "  Come  up  with  me  and  show  me  my  room. 
I  Ve  an  ocean  of  things  to  say  to  you.  Fox  will  excuse  us, 
I  know." 

"Fox  will  have  to,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "whether  he  wants 
to  or  not." 

"You  see,"  laughed  Henrietta,  "he  knows  his  place." 

"Oh,  yes,"  Fox  agreed.   "I  know  my  place." 

Sally  had  not  seen  Henrietta  for  four  or  five  years.  Hen 
rietta  was  a  lively  girl,  small  and  dainty  and  very  pretty. 
Her  very  motions  were  like  those  of  a  butterfly,  fluttering 
with  no  apparent  aim  and  then  alighting  suddenly  and  with 
great  accuracy  upon  the  very  flower  whose  sweetness  she 
had  meant,  all  along,  to  capture;  but  lightly  and  for  a  mo 
ment.  The  simile  is  Sally's,  not  mine,  and  she  thought  of  it 
at  the  instant  of  greeting  her ;  in  fact,  it  was  while  Henrietta 
was  kissing  her,  and  she  could  not  help  wondering  whether 
Henrietta  —  But  there  she  stopped,  resolutely.  Such 
thoughts  were  uncharitable. 

In  spite  of  Sally's  wonderings,  she  was  captivated  by 
Henrietta's  daintiness  and  beauty.  Sally  never  thought  at 


1 86  CONCERNING  SALLY 

all  about  her  own  looks,  although  they  deserved  more  than 
a  thought;  for  —  well,  one  might  have  asked  Jane  Spencer 
or  Richard  Torrington,  or  even  Fox,  who  had  just  seen  her 
for  the  first  time  in  years.  Or  Everett  Morton  might  have 
been  prevailed  upon  to  give  an  opinion,  although  Everett's 
opinion  would  have  counted  for  little.  He  would  have 
appraised  her  good  points  as  he  would  have  appraised  those 
of  a  horse  or  a  dog ;  he  might  even  have  compared  her  with 
his  favorite  horse,  Sawny,  —  possibly  to  the  disadvantage 
of  Sawny,  although  there  is  more  doubt  about  that  than 
there  should  be,  —  or  to  his  last  year's  car.  But  he  was 
driving  Sawny  now  more  than  he  was  driving  his  car,  for 
there  was  racing  every  afternoon  on  the  Cow  Path  by  the 
members  of  the  Gentlemen's  Driving  Club.  No,  on  the 
whole,  I  should  not  have  advised  going  to  Everett. 

Sally,  I  say,  not  being  vain  or  given  to  thinking  about 
her  own  looks,  thought  Henrietta  was  the  prettiest  thing 
she  had  ever  seen.  So,  when  Henrietta  issued  the  command 
which  has  been  recorded,  Sally  went  without  a  word  of  pro 
test,  leaving  Fox  and  her  mother  standing  in  the  back  parlor 
beside  the  table  with  its  ancient  stained  and  cut  green 
cloth.  Fox  was  not  looking  at  her,  but  at  the  doorway 
through  which  Sally  had  just  vanished. 

"Well,"  he  said  at  last,  turning  to  her,  "I  call  that  rather 
a  cold  sort  of  a  greeting,  after  four  years." 

Mrs.  Ladue  laughed  softly.  "What  should  she  have  done, 
you  great  boy?"  she  asked.  "Should  she  have  fallen  upon 
your  neck  and  kissed  you?" 

"Why,  yes,"  Fox  replied,  "something  of  the  sort.  I 
should  n't  have  minded.  I  think  it  might  have  been  rather 
nice.  But  I  suppose  it  might  be  a  hard  thing  to  do." 

"Fox,"  she  protested,  "you  are  wrong  about  Sally.  She 
is  n't  cold  at  all,  not  at  all.  She  is  as  glad  to  see  you  as  I  am 

—  almost.  And  I  am  glad." 

"That  is  something  to  be  grateful  for,  dear  lady,"  he 
said.  "I  would  not  have  you  think  that  I  am  not  grateful 

—  very  grateful.    It  is  one  of  the  blessings  showered  upon 


CONCERNING  SALLY  187 

me  by  a  very  heedless  providence,"  he  continued,  smiling, 
"unmindful  of  my  deserts." 

"  Oh ,  Fox ! "  she  protested .  ' '  Your  deserts !  If  you  had — ' ' 

He  interrupted  gently.  "I  know.  The  earth  ought  to  be 
laid  at  my  feet.  I  know  what  you  think  and  I  am  grateful 
for  that,  too." 

To  this  there  was  no  reply. 

"I  think,"  he  resumed  reflectively,  "that  enough  of  the 
earth  is  laid  at  my  feet,  as  it  is.  I  shall  not  be  thirty  until 
next  fall."  He  spoke  with  a  note  of  triumph,  which  can 
easily  be  forgiven. 

"And  I,"  she  said,  "am  forty-three.  Look  at  my  gray 
hairs." 

He  laughed.  "Who  would  believe  it?  But  what,"  he 
asked,  "was  the  special  reason  for  your  wanting  to  see  me 
now?  I  take  it  there  was  a  special  reason?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "There  was  n't  any  special  reason. 
I  meant  to  make  that  plain  and  I  thought  I  had.  I  feel  as  if 
I  ought  to  apologize  for  asking  you  at  all,  for  you  may  have 
felt  under  some  obligation  to  come  just  because  you  were 
asked.  I  hope  you  did  n't,  Fox,  for  — " 

Fox  smiled  quietly.  His  smile  made  her  think  of  Uncle 
John  Hazen.  "I  did  n't,"  he  said. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  did  n't.  Don't  ever  feel  obliged  to  do  any 
thing  for  me —  for  us."  She  corrected  herself  quickly.  "We 
are  grateful,  too,  —  at  least,  I  am  —  for  anything.  No, 
there  was  n't  any  special  reason.  I  just  wanted  to  see  you 
with  my  own  eyes.  Four  years  is  a  long  time." 

Fox,  who  had  almost  reached  the  advanced  age  of  thirty, 
was  plainly  embarrassed. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  laughing  a  little,  "now  that  you  have 
seen  me,  what  do  you  think?" 

"That,"  she  answered,  still  in  her  tone  of  gentle  banter, 
"I  shall  not  tell  you.  It  would  not  be  good  for  you."  A 
step  was  heard  in  the  hall.  "Oh,"  she  added,  hastily,  in  a 
voice  that  was  scarcely  more  than  a  whisper,  "here's  Patty. 
Be  nice  to  her,  Fox." 


1 88  CONCERNING  SALLY 

However  much  —  or  little  —  Mrs.  Ladue's  command 
had  to  do  with  it,  Fox  was  as  nice  to  Patty  as  he  knew  how 
to  be.  To  be  sure,  Fox  had  had  much  experience  with  just 
Patty's  kind  in  the  past  four  years,  and  he  had  learned  just 
the  manner  for  her.  It  was  involuntary  on  his  part,  to  a 
great  extent,  and  poor  Patty  beamed  and  fluttered  and  was 
very  gracious.  She  even  suggested  something  that  she  had 
had  no  expectation  of  suggesting  when  she  entered  the 
room. 

"Perhaps,  Mr.  Sanderson,"  she  said,  with  a  slight  incli 
nation  of  her  head,  "you  would  care  to  accompany  us  out 
on  the  harbor  to-morrow  afternoon.  It  is  frozen  over,  you 
know,  and  the  ice  is  very  thick.  There  is  no  danger,  I  assure 
you.  It  does  n't  happen  every  winter  and  we  make  the  most 
of  it."  She  laughed  a  little,  lightly.  "The  men  —  the  young 
men  —  race  their  horses  there  every  afternoon.  They  usu 
ally  race  on  the  Cow  Path  —  Washington  Street,  no  doubt 
I  should  call  it,  but  we  still  cling  to  the  old  names,  among 
ourselves.  These  young  men  have  taken  advantage  of  the 
unusual  condition  of  the  harbor  and  it  is  a  very  pretty  sight ; 
all  those  horses  flying  along.  We  shall  not  race,  of  course." 

If  Sally  had  heard  her,  I  doubt  whether  she  would  have 
been  able  to  suppress  her  chuckles  at  the  idea  of  the  Hazens' 
stout  horse  —  the  identical  horse  that  had  drawn  her  on 
her  first  arrival  —  at  the  idea,  I  say,  of  that  plethoric  and 
phlegmatic  and  somewhat  aged  animal's  competing  with 
such  a  horse  as  Sawny,  for  example.  Mrs.  Ladue  had  some 
difficulty  in  doing  no  more  than  smile. 

"Why,  Patty,"  she  began,  in  amazement,  "were  you  — 
but  I  must  not  keep  Fox  from  answering." 

Patty  had  betrayed  some  uneasiness  when  Mrs.  Ladue 
began  to  speak,  which  is  not  to  be  wondered  at.  She 
quieted  down. 

"I  ought  to  have  called  you  Doctor  Sanderson,"  she 
observed,  "ought  I  not?  I  forgot,  for  the  moment,  the 
celebrity  to  which  you  have  attained."  Again  she  inclined 
her  head  slightly. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  189 

Fox  laughed  easily.  "Call  me  anything  you  like,"  he 
replied.  "As  to  going  with  you  to  see  the  races,  I  accept 
with  much  pleasure,  if  you  can  assure  me  that  there  is  really 
no  danger.  I  am  naturally  timid,  you  know." 

Patty  was  in  some  doubt  as  to  how  to  take  this  reply  of 
Fox's;  not  in  much  doubt,  however.  She  laughed,  too. 
"Are  you,  indeed?  "  she  asked.  "  It  is  considered  quite  safe, 
I  do  assure  you." 

Mrs.  Ladue  looked  very  merry,  but  Patty  did  not  see  her. 

"We  will  consider  it  settled,  then,"  Patty  concluded, 
with  evident  satisfaction. 

On  her  way  to  her  room,  half  an  hour  later,  Mrs.  Ladue 
met  Patty  on  the  stairs. 

"Sarah,"  said  Patty  graciously,  "I  find  Doctor  Sander 
son  very  agreeable  and  entertaining;  much  more  so  than  I 
had  any  idea." 

Mrs.  Ladue  was  outwardly  as  calm  as  usual,  but  inwardly 
she  felt  a  great  resentment. 

"I  am  glad,  Patty,"  she  replied  simply;  and  she  escaped 
to  her  room,  where  she  found  Sally  and  Henrietta. 

"Sally,"  she  said  abruptly,  "what  do  you  think?  Patty 
has  asked  Fox  to  go  with  us  to  see  the  racing  to-morrow 
afternoon.  I  don't  know  who  the  'us'  is.  She  did  n't  say." 

Sally  stared  and  broke  into  chuckling.  "Oh,  mother/1' 
she  cried. 


CHAPTER  III 

WHITBY  has  a  beautiful  harbor.    It  is  almost  land 
locked,  the  entrance  all  but  closed  by  Ship  Island, 
leaving  only  a  narrow  passage  into  the  harbor. 
That  passage  is  wide  enough  and  deep  enough  for  steam 
ships  to  enter  by ;  it  is  wide  enough  for  ships  of  size  to  enter, 
indeed,  if  they  are  sailed  well  enough  and  if  there  were  any 
object  in  sailing-ships  of  size  entering  Whitby  Harbor. 
Many  a  ship  has  successfully  navigated  Ship  Island  Chan 
nel  under  its  own  sail,  but  that  was  before  the  days  of 
steam. 

Before  the  days  of  steam  Whitby  had  its  shipping;  and 
in  the  days  of  snipping  Whitby  had  its  fleets  of  ships  and 
barks  and  brigs  and  a  schooner  or  two.  Although  the  in 
dustries  of  Whitby  have  changed,  the  remnants  of  those 
fleets  are  active  yet,  or  there  would  have  been  nothing  doing 
at  the  office  of  John  Hazen,  Junior,  or  at  his  wharf.  Patty 
and  some  others  of  the  old  regime,  as  she  would  have  liked 
to  put  it,  were  wont  to  sigh  and  to  smile  somewhat  pathetic 
ally  when  that  change  was  alluded  to,  and  they  would  either 
say  nothing  or  they  would  say  a  good  deal,  according  to 
circumstances.  The  old  industry  was  more  picturesque  than 
the  new,  there  is  no  doubt  about  that,  and  I  am  inclined  to 
the  view  of  Miss  Patty  and  her  party.  It  is  a  pity. 

But  some  of  those  old  barks  and  brigs  are  in  commission 
still.  Only  a  few  years  ago,  the  old  bark  Hong-Kong,  a 
century  old  and  known  the  world  over,  sailed  on  her  last 
voyage  before  she  was  sold  to  be  broken  up.  They  were  good 
vessels,  those  old  barks;  not  fast  sailers,  but  what  did  the 
masters  care  about  that?  There  was  no  hurry,  and  they 
could  be  depended  upon  to  come  home  when  they  had 
filled,  for  the  weather  that  would  harm  them  is  not  made. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  191 

In  the  course  of  their  voyages  they  pushed  their  bluff  bows 
into  many  unknown  harbors  and  added  much  to  the  sum 
of  human  knowledge.  They  could  have  added  much  more, 
but  ship  captains  are  uncommunicative  men,  seldom  volun 
teering  information,  although  sometimes  giving  it  freely 
when  it  is  asked ;  never  blowing  their  own  horns,  differing, 
in  that  respect,  from  certain  explorers.  Perhaps  they 
should  be  called  lecturers  rather  than  explorers.  Poor 
chaps !  It  may  be  that  if  they  did  not  blow  them  and  make  a 
noise,  nobody  would  do  it  for  them,  but  they  never  wait  to 
find  out.  Let  them  blow  their  penny  trumpets.  It  is  safe 
and  sane  —  very. 

Captain  Forsyth  had  pronounced  views  on  this  subject. 
41  Explorers ! "  he  roared  to  Sally  one  day.  "These  explorers ! 
Huh!  It's  all  for  Smith,  that's  what  it  is,  and  if  Jones  says 
he  has  been  there,  Jones  is  a  liar.  Where?  Why,  anywhere. 
That  previously  unknown  harbor  Smith  has  just  discovered 
and  made  such  a  fuss  over  —  I  could  have  told  him  all  about 
it  forty  years  ago.  Previously  unknown  nothing!  It's 
Wingate's  Harbor,  and  when  I  was  in  command  of  the 
Hong- Kong  we  poked  about  there  for  months.  And  there's 
another,  about  a  hundred  miles  to  the  east'ard  that  he 
has  n't  discovered  yet,  and  it 's  a  better  harbor  than  his. 
Discover!  Huh!" 

"But  why,"  Sally  asked  in  genuine  surprise,  —  "why, 
Captain  Forsyth,  have  n't  you  told  about  it?  Why  don't 
you,  now?" 

"Why  don't  I?"  Captain  Forsyth  roared  again.  "No 
body  's  asked  me ;  that 's  why.  They  don't  want  to  know. 
They'd  say  I  was  a  liar  and  call  for  proofs.  Why  should 
I  ?  Cap'n  Wingate  found  it,  as  far  as  I  know,  but  there 
might  have  been  a  dozen  others  who  were  there  before  him. 
I  don't  know.  And  Cap'n  Sampson  and  Cap'n  Wingate 
and  Cap'n  Carling  and  Cap'n  Pilcher  and  —  oh,  all  the 
masters  knew  them  almost  as  well  as  they  knew  Whitby 
Harbor.  They  're  mostly  dead  now.  But  I  'm  not.  And  if 
anybody  comes  discovering  Whitby  Harbor,  why,  let  him 


I92  CONCERNING  SALLY 

look  out."  And  the  old  captain  went  off,  chuckling  to  him 
self. 

Many  a  time  the  old  Hong-Kong  had  entered  Whitby 
Harbor  under  her  own  sail.  Later,  the  tugs  met  the  ships 
far  down  the  bay  and  brought  them  in,  thereby  saving  some 
time.  Whether  they  saved  them  money  or  not  I  do  not 
know,  but  the  owners  must  have  thought  they  did.  At 
least,  they  saved  them  from  the  danger  of  going  aground  on 
Ship  Island  Shoal,  for  that  passage  into  the  harbor  was 
hardly  wide  enough  for  two  vessels  to  pass  in  comfort  unless 
the  wind  was  just  right. 

Once  in,  it  must  have  been  a  pretty  sight  for  the  returned 
sailors  and  one  to  warm  their  hearts  —  a  pretty  sight  for 
anybody,  indeed;  one  did  not  need  to  be  a  returned  sailor 
for  that.  There,  on  the  left,  was  the  town,  sloping  gently 
down  to  the  water,  with  its  church  spires  rising  from  a  sea 
of  green,  for  every  street  was  lined  with  elms.  And  there 
were  the  familiar  noises  coming  faintly  over  the  water:  the 
noise  of  many  beetles  striking  upon  wood.  There  were 
always  vessels  being  repaired,  and  the  masters  of  Whitby 
despised,  for  daily  use,  such  things  as  marine  railways  or 
dry-docks.  They  would  haul  down  a  vessel  in  her  dock 
until  her  keel  was  exposed  and  absolutely  rebuild  her  on 
one  side,  if  necessary ;  then  haul  her  down  on  the  other  tack, 
so  to  speak,  and  treat  that  side  in  the  same  way.  Even  in 
these  later  years  the  glory  of  Whitby  Harbor,  although 
somewhat  dimmed,  has  not  departed.  On  the  right  shore 
there  was  nothing  but  farms  and  pastures  and  hay-fields 
with  the  men  working  in  them ;  for  there  is  less  water  toward 
the  right  shore  of  the  harbor. 

There  were  no  hay-fields  visible  on  this  day  of  which  I 
am  speaking,  but  almost  unbroken  snow ;  and  there  were  no 
noises  of  beetles  to  come  faintly  to  a  vessel  which  had  just 
got  in.  Indeed,  no  vessel  could  have  just  got  in,  but,  having 
got  in,  must  have  stayed  where  she  happened  to  lie.  For 
Whitby  Harbor  was  more  like  Wingate's  Harbor,  of  which 
Captain  Forsyth  had  been  speaking,  in  connection  with 


CONCERNING  SALLY  193 

explorers,  than  it  was  like  Whitby  Harbor.  It  presented  a 
hard  and  shining  surface,  with  a  bark  and  three  schooners 
frozen  in,  caught  at  their  anchorages,  and  with  no  open 
water  at  all,  not  even  in  the  channel. 

If  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  recall  it,  you  will  remember 
that  the  winter  of  1904-05  was  very  cold;  even  colder, 
about  Whitby,  than  the  previous  cold  winter  had  been. 
Toward  the  end  of  January,  not  only  was  Whitby  Harbor 
frozen,  but  there  was  fairly  solid  ice  for  miles  out  into  the 
bay.  Whitby,  not  being,  in  general,  prepared  for  such  win 
ters,  was  not  provided  with  boats  especially  designed  for 
breaking  the  ice.  The  two  tugs  had  kept  a  channel  open  as 
long  as  they  could ;  but  one  night  the  temperature  fell  to 
twenty-three  below  zero  and  the  morning  found  them  fast 
bound  in  their  docks.  So  they  decided  to  give  it  up  —  mak 
ing  a  virtue  of  necessity  —  and  to  wait ;  which  was  a  decision 
reached  after  several  hours  of  silent  conference  between  the 
tugboat  captains,  during  which  conference  they  smoked 
several  pipes  apiece  and  looked  out,  from  the  snug  pilot 
house  of  the  Arethusa,  over  the  glittering  surface.  At  a 
quarter  to  twelve  Captain  Hannibal  let  his  chair  down  upon 
its  four  feet  and  thoughtfully  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his 
pipe. 

"  I  guess  we  can't  do  it,"  he  said  conclusively.  "  I  'm  goin' 
home  to  dinner." 

The  condition,  now,  reminded  Captain  Forsyth  of  other 
days.  For  nearly  two  weeks  the  temperature  had  not  been 
higher  than  a  degree  or  two  above  zero  and  the  ice  in  the 
harbor,  except  for  an  occasional  air-hole,  was  thick  enough 
to  banish  even  those  fears  which  Doctor  Sanderson  had  men 
tioned.  Any  timidity  was  out  of  place. 

If  any  fear  lingered  in  the  mind  of  the  stout  horse  as  to 
the  intention  of  his  driver ;  if  he  had  any  lingering  fear  that 
he  might  be  called  upon  to  race,  that  fear  was  dispelled  when 
he  saw  his  load.  He  knew  very  well  that  he  would  be  dis 
qualified  at  once.  There  were  Patty  and  Sally,  and  Mrs. 
Ladue,  Fox  and  Henrietta,  all  crowded  into  the  two-seated 


194  CONCERNING  SALLY 

sleigh.  Mr.  Hazen  had  said,  smiling,  that  he  would  come, 
later,  from  his  office,  on  his  own  feet.  Charlie,  seeing  the 
crowded  condition,  absolutely  refused  to  go.  This  was  a 
blow  to  Miss  Patty,  who  had  intended  that  he  should  drive, 
but  was  obliged  to  take  the  coachman  in  his  place.  Sally 
did  not  blame  him  and  made  up  her  mind,  as  she  squirmed 
into  the  seat  with  Patty  and  the  coachman,  that  she  would 
join  Uncle  John  as  soon  as  she  saw  him. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  entire  population  of  Whitby  must  be 
on  the  ice.  The  whole  surface  of  the  harbor  was  dotted 
thickly  with  people,  skating,  sliding,  or  just  wandering  aim 
lessly  about,  and,  on  occasion,  making  way  quickly  for  an 
ice-boat.  There  was  not  usually  ice  enough  to  make  ice- 
boating  a  permanent  institution  in  Whitby,  and  these  ice 
boats  were  hastily  put  together  of  rough  joists,  with  the 
mast  and  sail  borrowed  from  some  cat-boat ;  but  they  sailed 
well. 

The  most  of  the  people,  however,  were  gathered  in  two 
long  lines.  The  harbor  was  black  with  them.  They  were 
massed,  half  a  dozen  or  more  deep,  behind  ropes  that 
stretched  away  in  a  straight  line  for  more  than  a  mile;  and 
between  the  ropes  was  a  lane,  fifty  feet  wide  or  more,  white 
and  shining,  down  which  the  racing  horses  sped.  The  racing 
was  in  one  direction  only,  the  returning  racers  taking  their 
places  in  the  long  line  of  sleighs  which  carried  spectators 
and  went  back  at  a  very  sober  pace  to  the  starting-point. 
Here  the  line  of  sleighs  divided,  those  not  racing  making  a 
wide  turn  and  going  down  on  the  right,  next  the  ropes, 
leaving  the  racers  a  wide  path  in  the  middle. 

As  the  Hazens'  sleigh  approached  to  take  its  place  in  the 
line,  a  great  shouting  arose  at  a  little  distance.  The  noise 
swelled  and  died  away  and  swelled  again,  but  always  it 
went  on,  along  both  sides  of  the  line,  marking  the  pace. 
Fox  could  see  the  waving  hands  and  hats. 

"They  seem  to  be  excited,"  he  said,  turning,  as  well  as  he 
could,  to  Mrs.  Ladue,  who  sat  beside  him.  Henrietta  sat  on 
his  other  side.  "  Do  you  happen  to  know  what  it  is  about?" 


CONCERNING  SALLY  195 

Mrs.  Ladue  was  smiling  happily.  "Some  favorite  horse, 
I  suppose,"  she  replied,  "but  I  don't  know  anything  about 
the  horses.  You'd  better  ask  Sally." 

So  Fox  asked  Sally;  but,  before  she  could  answer,  Patty 
answered  for  her.  "  I  believe  that  it  is  Everett  Morton  and 
Sawny  racing  with  Mr.  Gilfeather.  I  am  not  sure  of  the 
name,  of  course,"  she  added  hastily.  "Some  low  person." 

Sally  looked  back  at  Fox  with  a  smile  of  amusement.  It 
was  almost  a  chuckle.  "Mr.  Gilfeather  keeps  a  saloon," 
she  remarked.  "  I  believe  it  is  rather  a  nice  saloon,  as  saloons 
go.  I  teach  his  daughter.  Cousin  Patty  thinks  that  is 
awful." 

"It  is  awful,"  Patty  said,  with  some  vehemence,  "to 
think  that  our  children  must  be  in  the  same  classes  with 
daughters  of  saloon-keepers.  Mr.  Gilfeather  may  be  a  very 
worthy  person,  of  course,  but  his  children  should  go  else 
where." 

Sally's  smile  had  grown  into  a  chuckle.  "Mr.  Gilfeather 
has  rather  a  nice  saloon,"  she  repeated,  "as  saloons  go. 
I  've  been  there." 

Fox  laughed,  but  Miss  Patty  did  not.  She  turned  a  horri 
fied  face  to  Sally. 

"Oh,  Sally  !"  she  cried.   "Whatever  — " 

"  I  had  to  see  him  about  his  daughter.  He  was  always  in 
hissaloon.  The  conclusion  is  obvious,  as  Mr.  MacDaliesays." 

"Oh,  Sally!"  cried  Patty  again.  "You  know  you  did  n't." 

"And  who,"  asked  Fox,  "is  Sawny?" 

"Sawny,"  Sally  answered,  hurrying  a  little  to  speak  before 
Patty  should  speak  for  her,  "Sawny  is  a  what,  not  a  who. 
He  is  Everett  Morton's  horse,  and  a  very  good  horse,  I 
believe." 

"He  seems  to  be  in  favor  with  the  multitude."  The  shout 
ing  and  yelling  had  broken  out  afresh,  far  down  the  lines. 
"Or  is  it  his  owner?" 

Sally  shook  her  head.  "It  is  Sawny,"  she  replied.  "I 
don't  know  how  the  multitude  regards  Everett.  Probably 
Mr.  Gilfeather  knows  more  a.bout  that  than  I  do." 


I96  CONCERNING  SALLY 

They  had  taken  their  place  in  the  line  of  sleighs  and  were 
ambling  along  close  to  the  rope.  The  sleighs  in  the  line  were 
so  close  that  the  stout  horse  had  his  nose  almost  in  the  neck 
of  a  nervous  man  just  ahead,  who  kept  looking  back,  while 
Fox  could  feel  the  breath  of  the  horse  behind. 

He  looked  at  Mrs.  Ladue.  "Does  it  trouble  you  that  this 
horse  is  so  near?"  he  asked.  "Do  you  mind?" 

"Nothing  troubles  me,"  she  said,  smiling  up  at  him.  "I 
don't  mind  anything.  I  am  having  a  lovely  time." 

And  Fox  returned  to  his  observation  of  the  multitude, 
collectively  and  individually.  They  interested  him  more 
than  the  horses,  which  could  not  truthfully  be  said  of  Hen 
rietta.  Almost  every  person  there  looked  happy  and  bent 
upon  having  a  good  time,  although  almost  everybody  was 
cold,  which  was  not  surprising,  and  there  was  much  stamp 
ing  of  feet  and  thrashing  of  arms,  and  the  ice  boomed  and 
cracked  merrily,  once  in  a  while,  and  the  noise  echoed  over 
the  harbor.  Suddenly  Fox  leaned  out  of  the  sleigh  and  said 
something  to  a  man,  who  looked  surprised  and  began  rub 
bing  his  ears  gently.  Then  he  called  his  thanks. 

"That  man's  ears  were  getting  frost-bitten,"  Fox  re 
marked  in  reply  to  a  questioning  glance  from  Mrs.  Ladue. 
"  Now  here  we  are  at  the  end  of  the  line  and  I  have  n't  seen 
a  single  race.  I  say,  Sally,  can't  we  get  where  we  can  see 
that  Sawny  horse  race?  I  should  like  to  see  him  and  Mr. 
Gilfeather." 

"He's  a  sight.  So  is  Mr.  Gilfeather."  And  Sally  laughed 
suddenly.  "If  we  should  hang  around  here  until  we  hear 
the  noise  coming  and  then  get  in  the  line  again,  we  should 
be  somewhere  near  halfway  down  when  he  comes  down 
again.  Can  we,  Cousin  Patty?" 

Patty  inclined  her  head  graciously.  "Why,  certainly, 
Sally.  Anything  Doctor  Sanderson  likes." 

"Doctor  Sanderson  is  greatly  obliged,"  said  Fox. 

The  nervous  man  appeared  much  relieved  to  find  that  they 
were  to  hang  around  and  that  he  was  not  condemned  to 
having  the  nose  of  their  horse  in  his  neck  all  the  afternoon. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  197 

They  drove  off  to  join  a  group  of  sleighs  that  were  hanging 
around  for  a  like  purpose. 

A  light  cutter,  drawn  by  a  spirited  young  horse,  drew  up 
beside  them. 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  a  pleasant  voice.  "Won't  some 
one  of  you  come  with  me?  You  should  have  mercy  on  your 
horse,  you  know." 

"Oh,  Dick!"  Sally  cried.  There  was  mischief  in  her  eyes. 
"It  is  good  of  you.  Will  you  take  Edward?" 

Even  Edward,  the  stolid  coachman,  grinned  at  that. 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Dick,  not  at  all  disconcerted,  "if 
Miss  Patty  can  spare  him." 

"Oh,"  cried  Miss  Patty,  "not  Edward." 

"Well,"  continued  Sally,  "Miss  Sanderson,  then." 

"With  pleasure,"  said  Dick  again.  There  was  no  need  to 
ask  Henrietta.  The  introductions  were  gone  hastily  through, 
and  Henrietta  changed  with  some  alacrity. 

"You  are  not  racing,  Dick?"  Sally  asked,  as  he  tucked 
the  robe  around  Henrietta. 

"Oh,  no,"  Dick  replied  solemnly,  looking  up.  "How  can 
you  ask,  Sally?  You  know  that  I  should  not  dare  to,  with 
this  horse.  He  is  too  young." 

"Gammon!"  Sally  exclaimed.  "I  shall  keep  my  eye  on 
you,  Dick." 

"That's  a  good  place  for  it,"  Dick  remarked.  "Good 
bye." 

Henrietta  was  laughing.  "Will  you  race,  Mr.  Torring- 
ton?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  no,"  Dick  repeated,  as  solemnly  as  before.  "I  have 
no  such  intention.  Of  course,  this  horse  is  young  and  full  of 
spirits  and  I  may  not  be  able  to  control  him.  But  my  inten 
tions  are  irreproachable." 

Henrietta  laughed  again.  "Oh,  I  hope  so,"  she  said, 
somewhat  ambiguously. 

Another  cutter,  the  occupant  of  which  had  been  waiting 
impatiently  until  Dick  should  go,  drew  up  beside  the  Ha- 
zens'.  The  aforesaid  occupant  had  eyes  for  but  one  person. 


198  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Won't  you  come  with  me,  Sally?"  He  did  not  mean 
that  the  wrong  one  should  be  foisted  upon  him. 

Sally  smiled  gently  and  shook  her  head.  There  were  so 
many  things  she  had  to  deny  him!  "Thank  you,  Eugene. 
I  shall  join  Uncle  John  as  soon  as  he  comes  down  —  as  soon 
as  I  see  him." 

"Well,  see  him  from  my  sleigh,  then.  The  view  is  as  good 
as  from  yours.  Is  n't  it  a  little  crowded?" 

Sally  shook  her  head  again. 

"Won't  you  come?"  he  persisted. 

Sally  sighed.  "No,  I  thank  you,  Eugene.  I  will  stay 
until  I  see  Uncle  John." 

Bowing,  Eugene  Spencer  drove  off,  leaving  Sally  rather 
sober  and  silent.  Fox  watched  her  and  wondered,  and  Mrs. 
Ladue,  in  her  turn,  watched  Fox.  She  could  do  that  with 
out  being  observed,  now  that  Henrietta  was  gone.  But  the 
noise  that  told  of  that  Sawny  horse  was  coming,  and  they 
got  into  line. 


CHAPTER   IV 

WHATEVER  the  things  in  which  Everett  Morton  had 
failed,  driving  was  not  one  of  them.  There  was 
some  excuse  for  his  not  succeeding  in  any  of  the 
things  he  had  tried:  he  did  not  have  to.  Take  away  the 
necessity  and  how  many  of  us  would  make  a  success  of  our 
business  or  our  profession?  For  that  matter,  how  many  of 
us  are  there  who  can  honestly  say  that  we  have  made  a 
success  of  the  profession  which  we  have  happened  to  choose? 
I  say  "happened  to  choose,"  because  it  is  largely  a  matter 
of  luck  whether  we  have  happened  to  choose  what  we  would 
really  rather  do.  Any  man  is  peculiarly  fortunate  if  he  has 
known  enough  and  has  been  able  to  choose  the  thing  that 
he  would  rather  do  than  anything  else,  and  such  a  man 
should  have  a  very  happy  life.  He  should  be  very  grateful 
to  his  parents.  I  envy  him.  Most  of  us  are  the  slaves  of 
circumstances  and  let  them  decide  for  us;  and  then,  perhaps 
too  late,  discover  that  which  we  had  rather  —  oh,  so  much 
rather  —  do  than  follow  on  in  the  occupation  which  fate  has 
forced  us  into.  We  have  to  labor  in  our  "leisure "  time  in  the 
work  which  we  should  have  chosen,  but  did  not;  as  if  the 
demands  of  to-day  —  if  we  would  succeed  —  left  us  any 
leisure  time! 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Everett  had  such  thoughts 
as  these.  He  was  concerned  only  with  Sawny,  at  the  mo 
ment,  and  with  Mr.  Gilfeather.  He  may  have  had  the  fleet 
ing  thought  that  he  made  rather  a  fine  figure,  in  his  coat  and 
cap  of  sables  and  with  his  bored,  handsome  face.  Indeed,  he 
did.  A  good  many  people  thought  so.  Even  Sally  may  have 
thought  so;  but  Sally  did  not  say  what  she  thought.  As 
Everett  made  the  turn  at  the  head  of  the  course,  he  looked 
around  for  Mr.  Gilfeather,  and  presently  he  found  him. 


200  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Mr.  Gilfeather  was  a  hard-featured  man,  with  a  red  face 
and  a  great  weight  of  body,  which  was  somewhat  of  a  handi 
cap  to  his  horse.  But  if  the  horse  expressed  no  objection  to 
that  and  if  Mr.  Gilfeather  did  not,  why,  Everett  was  the 
last  person  in  the  world  to  raise  the  question. 

"Try  it  again?"  Mr.  Gilfeather  called,  smiling  genially. 

Everett  nodded.  He  did  manage  a  bored  half-smile,  but 
it  could  not  be  called  genial,  by  any  stretch  of  the  word. 

They  manoeuvred  their  horses  until  they  were  abreast, 
and  jogged  down  the  course.  They  wanted  it  clear,  as  far 
as  they  could  get  it;  and  Mr.  Gilfeather's  horse  fretted  at 
the  bit  and  at  the  tight  hold  upon  him.  Sawny  did  not. 
He  knew  what  he  had  to  do.  And  presently  the  course 
opened  out  clear  for  a  good  distance  ahead. 

"What  do  you  say,  Everett?"  asked  Mr.  Gilfeather.  A 
good  many  people  heard  it  and  noted  that  Gilfeather 
called  Morton  Everett.  "Shall  we  let  'em  go?" 

Everett  nodded  again,  and  Mr.  Gilfeather  took  off  one 
wrap  of  the  reins.  The  nervous  horse  sprang  ahead,  but 
Sawny  did  not.  He  knew  what  was  expected  of  him.  Everett 
had  not  been  keeping  a  tight  hold  on  him ;  not  tight  enough 
to  worry  him,  although,  to  be  sure,  it  was  not  easy  to  worry 
Sawny.  So,  when  Everett  tightened  a  little  upon  his  bit, 
Sawny  responded  by  increasing  his  stride  just  enough  to 
keep  his  nose  even  with  Mr.  Gilfeather.  He  could  look  over 
Mr.  Gilfeather's  shoulder  and  see  what  he  was  doing  with 
the  reins.  Perhaps  he  did.  Sawny  was  a  knowing  horse 
and  he  almost  raced  himself. 

Mr.  Gilfeather's  horse  had  drawn  ahead  with  that  first 
burst  of  speed,  and  now,  seeing  that  Everett  was  apparently 
content,  for  the  time,  with  his  place,  Mr.  Gilfeather  tried 
to  check  him,  for  he  knew  Everett's  methods  —  or  shall  I 
say  Sawny 's?  —  and  there  was  three  quarters  of  a  mile  to 
go.  But  Sawny's  nose  just  over  his  shoulder  made  him  ner 
vous;  and  the  rhythmical  sound  of  Sawny's  sharp  shoes 
cutting  into  the  ice  —  always  just  at  his  ear,  it  seemed  — 
made  him  almost  as  nervous  as  his  horse,  although  Mr.  Gil- 


CONCERNING  SALLY  201 

feather  did  not  look  like  a  nervous  man.  So  he  let  his  horse 
go  a  little  faster  than  he  should  have  done,  which  was  what 
the  horse  wanted ;  anything  to  get  away  from  that  crash 
—  crash  of  hoofs  behind  him. 

But  always  Sawny  held  his  position,  lengthening  his  stride 
as  much  as  the  occasion  called  for.  He  could  lengthen  it 
much  more,  if  there  were  need,  as  he  knew  very  well;  as  he 
knew  there  soon  would  be.  Mr.  Gilfeather's  horse  —  and 
Mr.  Gilfeather  himself  —  got  more  nervous  every  second. 
The  horse,  we  may  presume,  was  in  despair.  Every  effort 
that  he  had  made  to  shake  Sawny  off  had  failed.  He  hung 
about  Mr.  Gilfeather's  shoulder  with  the  persistence  of  a 
green-head. 

In  these  positions,  the  horses  passed  down  between  the 
yelling  crowds.  Mr.  Gilfeather  may  have  heard  the  yelling, 
but  Everett  did  not.  It  fell  upon  his  ears  unheeded,  like  the 
sound  of  the  sea  or  of  the  wind  in  the  trees.  He  was  intent 
upon  but  one  thing  now,  and  that  thing  was  not  the  noise 
of  the  multitude. 

When  there  was  but  a  quarter  of  a  mile  to  go,  Sawny  felt 
a  little  more  pressure  upon  the  bit  and  heard  Everett's  voice 
speaking  low. 

"Now,  stretch  yourself,  Sawny,"  said  that  voice  cheer 
fully. 

And  Sawny  stretched  himself  to  his  full  splendid  stride 
and  the  sound  of  that  crash  of  hoofs  came  a  little  faster.  It 
passed  Mr.  Gilfeather's  shoulder  and  he  had  a  sight  of  red 
nostrils  spread  wide;  then  of  Sawny's  clean-cut  head  and 
intelligent  eye.  Did  that  eye  wink  at  him?  Then  came  the 
lean  neck  and  then  the  shoulder:  a  skin  like  satin,  with  the 
muscles  working  under  it  with  the  regularity  of  a  machine ; 
then  the  body  —  but  Mr.  Gilfeather  had  no  time  for  further 
observation  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  His  horse  had  heard, 
too,  and  knew  what  was  happening;  and  when  Mr.  Gil- 
feather  urged  him  on  to  greater  speed,  he  tried  to  go  faster 
and  he  broke. 

That  was  the  end  of  it.  He  broke,  he  went  into  the  air,  he 


202  CONCERNING  SALLY 

danced  up  and  down;  and  Sawny,  who  never  was  guilty  of 
that  crime,  went  by  him  like  a  streak. 

Everett  smiled  as  he  passed  Mr.  Gilfeather,  and  his  smile 
was  a  little  less  bored  than  usual.  "If  I  had  known  that 
this  was  to  be  a  running-race,"  he  said;  but  Mr.  Gilfeather 
lost  the  rest  of  Everett's  remark,  for  Sawny  had  carried  him 
out  of  hearing. 

It  chanced  that  they  had  passed  the  Hazens'  sleigh  just 
before  Mr.  Gilfeather's  horse  broke.  Sally  watched  the 
horses  as  they  passed,  with  Sawny  gaining  at  every  stride. 
Her  face  glowed  and  she  turned  to  Fox. 

"There!"  she  said.  "Now  you've  seen  him.  Isn't  he 
splendid?" 

"Who?  Mr.  Morton?"  Fox  asked  innocently.  "He  does 
look  rather  splendid.  That  must  be  a  very  expensive  coat 
and  the  — " 

Sally  smiled.    "  It  was  Sawny  that  I  meant." 

"Oh,"  said  Fox. 

"Everett  might  be  included,  no  doubt,"  she  continued. 

"No  doubt,"  Fox  agreed. 

"He  is  part  of  it,  although  there  is  a  popular  opinion  that 
Sawny  could  do  it  all  by  himself,  if  he  had  to." 

"Having  been  well  trained,"  Fox  suggested. 

Sally  nodded.  "Having  been  well  trained.  And  Everett 
trained  him,  I  believe." 

Fox  was  more  thoughtful  than  the  occasion  seemed  to 
call  for.  "  It  speaks  well  for  his  ability  as  a  trainer  of  horses." 

"  It  does."  Sally  seemed  thoughtful,  too. 

"And  what  else  does  Mr.  Morton  do,"  asked  Fox,  "but 
train  his  horse?" 

"Not  much,  I  believe,"  Sally  replied.  "At  other  seasons 
he  drives  his  car;  when  the  roads  are  good." 

"A  noble  occupation  for  a  man,"  Fox  observed,  cheerfully 
and  pleasantly ;  "driver  and  chauffeur.  Not  that  those  occu 
pations  are  not  quite  respectable,  but  it  hardly  seems  enough 
for  a  man  of  Mr.  Morton's  abilities,  to  say  the  least." 

Sally  looked  up  with  a  quick  smile.    "I  am  no  apologist 


CONCERNING  SALLY  203 

for  Everett,"  she  said.    "I  am  not  defending  him,  you  ob 
serve.    I  know  nothing  of  his  abilities." 

"What  do  you  know,  Sally,"  Fox  inquired  then,  "of 
popular  opinion?" 

"More  than  you  think,  Fox,"  Sally  answered  mischiev 
ously,  "for  I  have  mixed  with  the  people.  I  have  been  to 
Mr.  Gilfeather's  saloon." 

"Oh,  Sally!"  cried  Patty,  "I  wish  you  would  n't  keep  al 
luding  to  your  visit  to  that  horrible  place.  I  am  sure  that 
it  was  unnecessary." 

"Very  well,  Cousin  Patty,  I  won't  mention  it  if  it  pains 
you."  She  turned  to  Fox  again.  "  I  was  going  to  say  that 
it  is  a  great  pity." 

Fox  was  somewhat  mystified.  "  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  is, 
if  you  say  so.  I  might  fall  in  with  your  ideas  more  enthu 
siastically  if  I  knew  what  you  were  talking  about." 

"I  am  talking  about  Everett,"  Sally  replied,  chuckling. 
"I  don't  wonder  that  you  did  n't  know.  And  I  was  pre 
pared  to  make  a  rather  pathetic  speech,  Fox.  You  have 
dulled  the  point  of  it,  so  that  I  shall  not  make  it,  now." 

"To  the  effect,  perhaps,  if  I  may  venture  to  guess,"  Fox 
suggested,  "that  Everett  might  have  made  more  of  a  suc 
cess  of  some  other  things  if  he  had  felt  the  same  interest  in 
them  that  he  feels  in  racing  his  horse." 

"  If  he  could  attack  them  with  as  strong  a  purpose,"  Sally 
agreed,  absently,  with  no  great  interest  herself,  apparently, 
"he  would  succeed,  I  think.  I  know  that  Dick  thinks  he  has 
ability  enough." 

Fox  made  no  reply  and  Sally  did  not  pursue  the  subject 
further.  They  drove  to  the  end  of  the  course  in  silence. 
Suddenly  Sally  began  to  wave  her  muff  violently. 

"Oh,  there  is  Uncle  John,"  she  said.  "If  you  will  excuse 
me,  I  will  get  out,  Cousin  Patty.  You  need  n't  stop,  Edward. 
Just  go  slow.  I  find,"  she  added,  turning  again  to  the  back 
seat,  "that  it  is  the  popular  opinion  that  it  is  too  cold  for 
me  to  drive  longer  in  comfort,  so  I  am  going  to  leave  you,  if 
you  don't  mind." 


204  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"And  what  if  we  do  mind?"  asked  Fox;  to  which  question 
Sally  made  no  reply.  She  only  smiled  at  him  in  a  way  which 
he  found  peculiarly  exasperating. 

"Take  good  care  of  father,  Sally,"  said  Patty  anxiously. 

"I  will,"  Sally  replied  with  a  cheerful  little  nod.  "Good 
bye."  And  she  stepped  out  easily,  leaving  Patty,  Fox,  and 
her  mother.  This  was  an  arrangement  little  to  Patty's  liking. 
Doctor  Sanderson  was  in  the  seat  with  Mrs.  Ladue.  To  be 
sure,  he  might  have  changed  with  Patty  when  Sally  got 
out,  but  Mrs.  Ladue  would  not  have  him  inconvenienced 
to  that  extent.  She  noted  that  his  eyes  followed  Sally  as 
she  ran  and  slid  and  ran  again.  Mr.  Hazen  came  forward  to 
meet  her  and  she  slipped  her  hand  within  his  arm,  and  she 
turned  to  wave  her  muff  to  them.  Then  Sally  and  Uncle 
John  walked  slowly  back,  toward  the  head  of  the  course. 

Fox  turned  to  Mrs.  Ladue  and  they  smiled  at  each  other. 
"I  guess,"  Fox  remarked,  "that  she  is  not  changed,  after 
all;  except,"  he  added  as  an  afterthought,  "that  she  is  more 
generally  cheerful  than  she  used  to  be,  which  is  a  change  to 
be  thankful  for." 

Sally  and  Uncle  John  took  Dick  Torrington  home  to  din 
ner  ;  and  Henrietta  very  nearly  monopolized  his  attention, 
as  might  have  been  expected.  It  was  late,  as  the  habits 
of  the  Hazens  went,  when  they  went  up  to  bed,  but  Henrietta 
would  have  Sally  come  in  for  a  few  minutes.  She  had  so 
many  things  to  say.  No,  they  would  n't  wait.  She  would 
have  forgotten  them  by  the  next  day.  And  Sally  laughed 
and  went  with  Henrietta. 

Henrietta's  few  minutes  had  lengthened  to  half  an  hour 
and  she  had  not  said  half  the  things  she  had  meant  to  say. 
She  had  told  Sally  how  Mr.  Spencer  —  Eugene  Spencer, 
you  know  —  had  overtaken  them  at  the  head  of  the  course 
and  had  accosted  Mr.  Torrington,  challenging  him  to  race. 

"Mr.  Spencer,"  continued  Henrietta,  with  a  demure 
glance  at  Sally,  "seemed  out  of  sorts  and  distinctly  cross. 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why.  Do  you,  Sally?" 

Sally  looked  annoyed.    "He  is  very  apt  to  be,  I  think," 


CONCERNING  SALLY  205 

she  remarked  briefly.  "What  did  Dick  do?  He  said  he  was 
not  going  to  race." 

"Yes,  that's  what  he  told  Mr.  Spencer,  and  Mr.  Spencer 
said,  in  a  disagreeable  kind  of  way,  'You  promised  Sally, 
I  suppose.'  And  Dick  —  Mr.  Torrington  —  smiled  and  his 
eyes  wrinkled.  I  think  he  was  laughing  at  Mr.  Spencer  — 
at  the  pet  he  was  in.  Don't  you,  Sally?" 

Sally  nodded.   She  thought  it  very  likely. 

"And  Dick  —  I  must  ask  Mr.  Torrington's  pardon,  but 
I  hear  him  spoken  of  as  Dick  so  often  that  I  forget  —  Mr. 
Torrington  told  him,  in  his  slow,  quiet  way,  that  he  had  n't 
exactly  promised  you ;  that,  in  fact,  he  had  warned  you  that 
his  horse  was  spirited  and  somewhat  fractious  and  he  might 
not  be  able  to  hold  him.  He  had  warned  somebody,  any 
way,  and  he  thought  it  was  you.  It  was  n't  you,  at  all, 
Sally.  It  was  I,  but  I  did  n't  enlighten  him." 

"  I  knew,  very  well,  that  he  would,"  Sally  observed.  "So 
he  raced  with  Jane?" 

"With  Mr.  Spencer,"  Henrietta  corrected.  "Do  you 
call  him  Jane?  How  funny!  And  we  beat  him  and  he  went 
off  in  a  shocking  temper,  for  Dick  laughed  at  him,  but  very 
gently." 

"I 'm  not  sure  that  would  not  be  all  the  harder  for  Jane. 
I  suppose  you  were  glad  to  beat  him." 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Henrietta,  in  surprise.  "Would  n't 
you  have  been?  " 

Sally  was  rather  sober  and  serious.  "I  suppose  so.  It 
would  n't  have  made  any  particular  difference  whether  you 
beat  him  or  not." 

Henrietta  made  no  reply  to  this  remark.  She  was  sitting 
on  the  bed,  pretty  and  dainty,  and  was  tapping  her  foot 
lightly  on  the  floor.  She  gazed  at  Sally  thoughtfully  for  a 
long  time.  Finally  Sally  got  up  to  go. 

"Sally,"  Henrietta  asked  then,  smiling,  "haven't  you 
ever  thought  of  him  —  them  —  any  one  "  —  she  hesitated 
and  stammered  a  little  —  "in  that  way? "  She  did  not  seem 
to  think  it  necessary  to  specify  more  particularly  the  way 


206  CONCERNING  SALLY 

she  meant.  "There  are  lots  of  attractive  men  here.  There's 
Everett  Morton  and  there's  Eugene  Spencer,  though  he's 
almost  too  near  your  own  age;  but  anybody  can  see  that 
he's  perfectly  dippy  over  you.  And  — " 

"And  there,  too,"  Sally  interrupted,  "are  the  Carlings, 
Harry  and  Horry,  neither  of  whom  you  have  seen  because 
they  happen  to  be  in  college.  The  last  time  they  came  home, 
Harry  was  wearing  a  mustache  and  Horry  side- whiskers, 
so  that  it  would  be  easy  to  tell  them  apart.  The  only  trouble 
with  that  device  was  that  I  forgot  which  was  which.  And 
there  is  Ollie  Pilcher,  and  there  is  —  oh,  the  place  is  per 
fectly  boiling  with  men  —  if  it  is  men  that  you  are  looking 
for." 

Henrietta  gave  a  little  ripple  of  laughter.  "You  are  too 
funny,  Sally.  Of  course  I  am  looking  for  men  —  or  for  a 
man.  Girls  of  our  age  are  always  looking  for  them,  whether 
we  know  it  or  not  —  deep  down  in  our  hearts.  Remember 
Margaret  Savage?  Well,  she  seems  to  be  looking  for  Fox, 
and  I  should  n't  wonder  if  he  succumbed,  in  time.  She  is 
very  pretty." 

There  was  a  look  of  resentment  in  Sally's  eyes,  but  she 
made  no  remark. 

"And  I  have  not  finished  my  list,"  Henrietta  went  on. 
"  I  can  only  include  the  men  I  have  seen  to-day.  To  end  the 
list,  there  is  Dick  Torrington.  Have  n't  you  —  have  n't 
you  thought — " 

Sally  flushed  slowly;  but  she  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 
"You  see,  Henrietta,"  she  said  apologetically,  "I  have  my 
teaching  to  think  of  — " 

"Oh,  bosh!"  cried  Henrietta,  smiling. 

"Fox  knows,"  Sally  continued,  defensively,  "and  you 
can't  have  wholly  forgotten,  Henrietta." 

"Bosh,  Sally!"  said  Henrietta  again. 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  but  a  few  steps  from  Henrietta's  door  to  Sally's 
own.  Sally,  her  ideas  a  little  confused  by  that  exclama 
tion  of  Henrietta's  and  by  what  it  implied,  walked  those 
few  steps  softly  and  had  her  hand  upon  the  knob  of  her  own 
door  when  she  found  herself  sniffing  and  realized  that  she 
smelt  smoke.  It  was  a  very  faint  smell  and  she  hesitated, 
even  then,  and  stood  there  in  the  dark  hall,  recalling  the 
fires  that  had  been  left.  There  had  been  no  wood  fire. 

She  took  her  hand  softly  from  the  knob.  "I  believe  I'll 
just  look  around,"  she  told  herself.  "It's  a  terrible  night 
for  a  fire.  I  hope  nobody '11  take  me  for  a  burglar." 

She  went  downstairs  quickly,  taking  no  pains  to  be  quiet. 
If  she  were  not  quiet,  she  thought,  with  an  involuntary 
chuckle,  Uncle  John  would  not  be  likely  to  think  she  was  the 
sort  of  person  that  had  no  business  to  be  in  the  house  at  all. 
She  looked  into  the  back  parlor.  All  was  right  there.  Then 
she  opened  the  door  leading  into  the  back  hall.  The  smell  of 
smoke  was  stronger.  She  glanced  into  the  kitchen.  The  top 
of  the  range  was  red-hot,  to  be  sure,  but  that  was  not  un 
usual  enough  to  excite  surprise,  and  the  great  old  chimney, 
with  its  brick  oven  and  broad  brick  breast  and  the  wide 
brick  hearth  reaching  out  well  beyond  the  range  were  enough 
assurance.  The  smoke  must  come  from  the  cellar. 

The  cellar  door  was  in  the  back  hall,  just  at  Sally's  hand 
as  she  stood.  She  opened  it;  and  was  almost  stifled  by  the 
smoke  that  poured  out.  She  gasped  and  shut  the  door  again 
quickly,  and  ran  and  opened  a  kitchen  window,  fumbling  a 
little  at  the  fastening,  and  drew  two  or  three  long  breaths  of 
the  crisp  night  air,  thinking  how  cold  it  was.  Then  she  opened 
the  cellar  door  again,  held  her  breath,  and  went  down. 

It  was  a  little  better  when  she  got  down,  although  the 


208  CONCERNING  SALLY 

smoke  was  thick  up  by  the  floor  beams.  Sally  glanced  in  the 
direction  of  the  furnace ;  and  she  saw,  through  the  smoke,  a 
dull  red  glow,  with  little  licks  of  flame  running  up  from  it, 
now  and  then.  The  man  had  forgotten  the  furnace  and  had 
left  it  drawing.  That  pipe  was  perilously  near  the  beams. 

"The  idiot!"  Sally  exclaimed.  And  she  held  her  breath 
again  while  she  ran  up  the  cellar  stairs. 

She  was  angry  with  herself  because  her  hands  trembled  as 
she  lighted  the  gas  in  the  kitchen  and  found  the  lantern  and 
lighted  it.  The  slight  trembling  of  her  hands  did  not  matter 
so  much  in  filling  a  pitcher  with  water  and  by  the  time  the 
pitcher  was  full  her  hands  were  steady  enough.  She  ran 
down  cellar  again,  the  lantern  in  one  hand  and  the  pitcher 
in  the  other ;  and  she  shut  the  drafts  in  the  furnace  as  far  as 
she  could.  She  heard  the  flame  roaring  in  the  pipe  and  the 
damper  was  red-hot. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  said,  under  her  breath.  "If  there  was 
only  something  to  take  hold  of  it  with !  And  the  beams  are 
all  afire.  Well,—" 

She  threw  the  water  from  her  pitcher  upon  the  beams 
in  little  dashes. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  said  again.    "I  can't  do  it." 

A  quiet  voice  spoke  behind  her.  "Better  give  it  up,  Sally, 
and  rouse  the  people." 

Sally  was  too  intent  upon  her  purpose  to  be  startled.  "Oh, 
Uncle  John!"  she  cried.  "You  are  a  very  present  help  in 
trouble.  We  could  put  it  out  if  this  was  all,  but  I  'm  afraid 
it  has  already  got  up  between  the  walls." 

"Come  up,  then,"  Uncle  John  spoke  calmly  and  without 
haste.  "Never  mind  the  lantern.  I  will  rouse  Patty  and 
Doctor  Sanderson  and  you  get  at  Henrietta  and  your  mo 
ther  and  the  servants.  Don't  send  Patty  to  the  servants,"  he 
added,  with  a  smile.  "I  will  send  in  the  alarm." 

Mr.  Hazen  had  forgotten  Charlie.  Sally  ran  upstairs. 
There  was  still  a  light  showing  under  Henrietta's  door  and 
Sally  went  in. 

"You'd  better  not  undress,  Henrietta,"  she  said.  "There 


CONCERNING  SALLY  209 

is  a  fire  and  we  may  have  to  get  out.  You  may  have  time 
to  do  a  good  deal,  if  you  hurry  —  even  to  pack  your  trunk. 
You'd  better  put  on  your  furs.  It's  terribly  cold." 

Henrietta  was  not  flurried.  "  I  '11  be  ready  in  a  jiffy,  Sally. 
Run  along  now." 

Sally  ran  and  woke  her  mother,  telling  her  to  get  dressed 
quickly  while  she  went  for  the  servants.  On  her  way  up, 
she  knocked  at  Charlie's  door.  She  came  downstairs  pre 
sently,  settled  the  servants  in  the  hall,  and  went  up  to  her 
room  to  help  her  mother. 

Then  the  firemen  came  with  a  tremendous  clanging  of 
bells  and  shrieking  of  whistles,  reveling  in  noise.  Sally 
laughed  when  she  heard  them,  and  her  mother  laughed  with 
her,  rather  nervously.  The  rest  of  it  was  a  sort  of  night 
mare  to  Sally  and  she  had  no  very  distinct  recollection  of 
any  part  of  it.  There  was  great  confusion,  and  firemen  in 
the  most  unexpected  places,  and  hose  through  the  halls  and 
on  the  stairs.  Fox  and  Henrietta  had  packed  their  trunks 
and  Patty  had  two  pillows  and  a  wire  hair-brush,  which  she 
insisted  upon  carrying  about  with  her. 

Then  they  were  ordered  out,  and  Sally  found  herself  out 
in  the  night  and  the  cold  amid  the  confusion  of  firemen  and 
engines  and  horses  and  ice.  For  both  Appletree  and  Box 
Elder  streets  seemed  full  of  hose,  which  leaked  at  every  pore 
and  sent  little  streams  of  water  on  high,  to  freeze  as  soon 
as  they  fell  and  form  minature  cascades  of  ice  on  which 
an  old  man  —  a  young  man,  for  that  matter  —  might  more 
easily  slip  and  fall  than  not.  It  was  very  dark  out  there,  the 
darkness  only  made  more  dense  by  the  light  from  the  lan 
terns  of  the  firemen  and  the  sparks  from  an  engine  that  was 
roaring  near.  They  were  throwing  water  on  the  outside  of 
the  house  —  two  streams ;  and  Sally  wondered  why  in  the 
world  they  did  it.  There  was  no  fire  visible.  Perhaps  Fox 
would  know.  And  she  looked  around. 

Their  faces  could  just  be  made  out,  in  the  gloom;  her 
mother  and  Charlie,  Charlie  with  the  bored  look  that  he 
seemed  to  like  to  assume,  copied  after  Everett;  and  Patty, 


210  CONCERNING  SALLY 

still  with  her  two  pillows  and  her  wire  hair-brush,  looking 
frightened,  as  she  was;  and  Henrietta  and  Fox  and  the  hud 
dled  group  of  the  servants.  She  could  not  see  Uncle  John. 
There  were  not  many  spectators,  which  is  not  a  matter  for 
surprise.  There  is  little  interest  in  trying  to  watch  a  fire 
which  one  cannot  see,  late  on  a  night  which  is  cold  enough 
to  freeze  one's  ears  or  fingers,  and  the  curbstone  is  but  cold 
comfort. 

Fox  and  Henrietta  were  talking  together  in  low  tones. 
"Fox,"  asked  Sally,  "do  you  know  why  they  are  throwing 
water  on  the  outside  of  the  house.  For  the  life  of  me,  I  can't 
make  out." 

"For  their  own  delectation,  I  suppose,"  he  answered 
soberly.  "It  is  a  fireman's  business  —  or  part  of  it  —  to 
throw  water  on  a  building  as  well  as  all  over  the  inside,  when 
there  is  any  excuse.  Besides,  the  water,  as  it  runs  off  the  roof 
and  all  the  little  outs,  forms  very  beautiful  icicles  which, 
no  doubt,  delight  the  fireman's  professional  eye.  Think  how 
pretty  it  will  look  to-morrow  morning  with  the  early  sun 
upon  it." 

Sally  chuckled.  "I  see  them  dimly,"  she  returned,  "but 
very  dimly.  They  ought  to  have  a  search-light  on  them." 

"I  believe  there  is  one,"  he  observed.  "They  will  have 
it  going  presently." 

"Oh,"  Sally  exclaimed;  and  she  chuckled  again. 

Thereupon,  as  if  it  had  been  a  signal,  a  brilliant  white 
light  shone  forth.  It  happened  to  be  pointed  exactly  upon 
the  little  group,  but  shifted  immediately  so  that  it  illum 
inated  the  roof.  There  were  great  rippling  cascades  of  ice 
down  the  slope  of  it  and  icicles  forming  at  each  edge  and 
the  water  streaming  off  them. 

Sally  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  "It  is  certainly 
very  pretty,"  she  said  then,  "and  should  delight  the  fire 
man's  professional  eye.  I  suppose  that  I  might  enjoy  it 
more  if  it  were  not  our  house." 

The  moment's  illumination  had  served  to  point  them  out 
to  somebody.  Mrs.  Ladue  touched  Sally  on  the  arm. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  211 

"Sally,  dear,"  she  said,  "I  think  that  we  may  as  well  go 
now.  Mrs.  Torrington  has  asked  us  all  to  stay  there.  Won't 
you  and  Henrietta  come?" 

"She  is  very  kind,"  Sally  replied.  "I  had  not  thought 
about  going  anywhere,  yet.  I  am  warm,  perfectly  warm. 
I  have  my  furs,  you  see.  I  think  I  will  wait  until  I  see  Uncle 
John,  mother,  and  we  can  go  somewhere  together.  I  don't 
like  to  leave  him.  But  probably  Fox  and  Henrietta  will  go." 
She  looked  around.  "  But  where  is  Patty?  " 

"Gone  to  Mrs.  Upjohn's  a  few  minutes  ago.  Poor  Patty! 
I  am  very  glad  to  have  her  go." 

Henrietta  had  gathered  the  drift  of  the  talk,  although  she 
hadnotheardanynam.es.  She  turned.  "  I  could  stay  here 
with  you,  Sally,  or  I  could  go  if  it  would  be  more  convenient. 
I  am  warm  enough.  Who  has  asked  us?" 

Mrs.  Ladue  answered  for  Sally.  "Mrs.  Torrington  sent 
Dick  to  find  us,"  she  said.  "Here  he  is." 

Henrietta's  decision  changed  instantly.  "Oh,"  she  cried, 
"Mr.  Torrington!  It  is  very  kind,  and  I  accept  gratefully. 
When  shall  we  start,  Mrs.  Ladue?" 

Sally  barely  repressed  a  chuckle.  "I'll  stay,  thank  you, 
Dick;  for  Uncle  John,  you  know." 

"Good  girl,  Sally.  I  hope  I'll  fare  as  well  when  I'm  old. 
Come  whenever  you  get  ready.  Somebody  will  be  up  and  I 
think  we  have  room  for  everybody.  Will  Doctor  Sanderson 
come  now?"  Dick  added. 

Doctor  Sanderson  thanked  him,  but  elected  to  stay  with 
Sally,  and  Sally  urged  Dick  not  to  expect  them  and  on  no 
account  to  stay  up  for  them. 

Dick  and  Henrietta  and  Mrs.  Ladue  had  scarcely  gone 
when  the  roaring  engine  choked,  gave  a  few  spasmodic 
snorts  and  its  roaring  stopped. 

"What's  the  matter  with  it?"  Sally  asked.  "Why  has  it 
stopped?" 

"Colic,"  Fox  replied  briefly. 

Sally  chuckled  again  and  took  his  arm.  He  made  no  ob 
jection.  The  engine  seemed  to  be  struggling  heroically  to 


212  CONCERNING  SALLY 

resume  its  roaring  and  there  was  much  running  of  firemen 
and  shouting  unintelligible  orders,  to  which  nobody  paid 
any  attention.  In  the  midst  of  the  confusion,  Mr.  Hazen 
appeared.  He  was  evidently  very  tired  and  he  shivered  as 
he  spoke  to  Sally. 

"  I  have  done  all  I  could,"  he  said.  "That  was  n't  much. 
Where  are  the  others,  Sally?" 

Sally  told  him.  "You  must  be  very  tired,  Uncle  John," 
she  went  on ,  anxiously.  ' '  And  you  are  wet  through  and  colder 
than  a  clam.  Your  teeth  are  positively  chattering." 

He  looked  down  at  himself  and  felt  of  his  clothes.  The  edge 
of  his  overcoat  and  the  bottoms  of  his  trousers  were  frozen 
stiff.  "I  guess  I  am  tired,"  he  replied,  trying  to  call  up  a 
smile,  "and  I  am  a  little  cold.  I've  been  so  occupied  that 
I  had  n't  noticed.  And  I  slipped  on  one  of  their  piles  of  ice. 
It  did  n't  do  any  harm,"  he  added  hastily.  "  I  think  I  '11  go 
over  to  Stephen's  —  Captain  Forsyth's.  He  won't  mind 
being  routed  out.  What  will  you  do,  Sally?  Why  don't  you 
and  Fox  come,  too?" 

Sally  hesitated.  There  was  no  objectln  their  staying  any 
longer,  but  she  did  not  like  to  impose  upon  Captain  For- 
syth.  If  she  had  only  known  it,  Captain  Forsyth  would 
have  liked  nothing  better  than  to  be  imposed  upon  by  Sally 
in  any  way  that  she  happened  to  choose. 

While  she  was  hesitating  she  heard  a  voice  behind 
her.  "Mr.  Hazen,"  said  the  voice,  rather  coldly  and  form 
ally,  "  won't  you  and  Sally  —  Miss  Ladue  —  and  —  any 
others  —  " 

Sally  had  turned  and  now  saw  that  it  was  Everett.  She 
knew  that  well  enough  as  soon  as  he  had  begun  to  speak. 
And  she  saw,  too,  that  he  was  looking  at  Fox.  She  hastened 
to  introduce  them.  It  was  necessary,  in  Everett's  case.  They 
both  bowed. 

"My  mother  sent  me,"  Everett  resumed,  in  the  same 
formal  tone,  "to  find  any  of  the  family  that  I  could  and  to 
say  that  we  hope  —  my  father  and  my  mother  and  myself 
—  we  hope  that  they  will  come  to-night  and  stay  as  long  as 


CONCERNING  SALLY  213 

they  find  it  convenient."  He  seemed  to  have  no  great  liking 
for  his  errand.  "It  is  very  awkward,"  he  added,  with  his 
bored  smile,  "to  be  burned  out  of  your  house  at  night  and 
on  such  a  very  cold  night,  too." 

"Oh,  but  think,"  said  Sally,  "how  much  worse  it  might 
be.  It  might  have  been  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
when  everybody  would  have  been  sleeping  soundly." 

"That  is  very  true,"  he  returned.  "I  suppose  you  are 
thankful  it  was  not  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning."  He 
looked  at  them  all  in  turn  questioningly.  "Will  you  come? 
We  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would." 

Again  Sally  hesitated.  Uncle  John  saved  her  the  trouble 
of  answering. 

' '  I  had  j  ust  expressed  my  intention  of  going  to  Stephen 
Forsyth's,  Everett,"  he  said,  "and  I  think  I  will.  Stephen 
and  I  are  old  cronies,  you  know.  We  are  very  much  obliged 
to  you  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  Sally  and  Dr.  Sanderson 
will  go,  with  pleasure.  They  must  have  had  about  enough 
of  this." 

Everett  bowed.  Sally  could  hear  Uncle  John's  teeth 
chattering  and  his  voice  had  been  very  shaky  as  he  fin 
ished. 

"Let  Fox  prescribe  for  you,  Uncle  John,"  she  said.  "I 'm 
worried  about  you.  What's  the  use  of  having  a  doctor  in 
the  family  if  he  doesn't  prescribe  when  there  is  need?" 
And  then  Sally  was  thankful  that  it  was  dark. 

Uncle  John  smiled  his  assent  and  Fox  prescribed.  "  I  have 
no  doubt  that  Captain  Forsyth  will  have  certain  remedies  at 
hand,"  he  concluded,  "and  I  should  think  there  would  be 
no  harm  in  your  taking  them,  in  moderation." 

Uncle  John  laughed.  "He  will  press  them  upon  me,"  he 
said.  "  I  will  observe  Doctor  Sanderson's  prescription.  Now, 
good-night.  No,  Sally,  Stephen's  is  just  around  the  corner, 
you  know." 

He  disappeared  into  the  darkness  and  Sally,  with  much 
inward  misgiving,  prepared  to  follow  Everett.  She  was 
really  worried  about  Uncle  John.  He  was  an  old  man,  just 


214  CONCERNING   SALLY 

upon  eighty,  and  he  had  gone  through  a  great  deal  that 
night  and  was  chilled  through,  she  was  afraid,  and  — 

She  stopped  short.  "Oh,  Fox,"  she  cried.  "The  servants! 
I  had  forgotten  them.  What  in  the  world  shall  we  do  with 
them?" 

Everett  had  stopped,  too,  and  heard  Sally's  question. 
"That  is  not  difficult,"  he  said.  "Send  them  to  our  house. 
It  is  a  large  house  and  there  is  room  for  them  in  the  servants' 
wing.  Perhaps  I  can  find  them." 

Everett  was  back  in  a  moment.  "That  was  easy,"  he 
remarked.  "You  need  give  yourself  no  concern." 

They  walked  in  silence  up  the  long  driveway,  between  the 
rows  of  shadowing  spruces,  and  up  the  broad  granite  steps. 
Everett  had  his  key  in  the  latch  and  threw  open  the  door. 

"My  mother  did  not  come  down,  apparently.  You  will 
see  her  in  the  morning." 

As  she  took  off  her  furs  in  the  hall,  Sally  was  very  grate 
ful  for  the  warmth  and  the  cheerfulness  and  the  spaciousness 
of  the  great  house.  Everett  slipped  off  his  coat  of  sables  and 
led  the  way  up  the  stairs. 

"Your  room,  Sally  —  I  shall  call  you  Sally?"  He  looked 
at  her,  but  not  as  if  in  doubt. 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Sally  in  surprise. 

"Your  room,  Sally,"  he  resumed,  "is  down  that  hall, 
just  opposite  my  mother's.  The  door  is  open  and  there  is  a 
light.  Doctor  Sanderson's  is  this  way,  near  mine.  I  will  show 
him.  Good-night,  Sally." 

"Good-night,"  she  answered;  "and  good-night,  Fox." 

They  turned  and  she  went  down  the  hall,  her  feet  making 
no  sound  in  the  soft  carpet.  The  door  which  Everett  had 
pointed  out  as  his  mother's  stood  ajar,  and,  as  Sally  passed, 
it  opened  wider  and  Mrs.  Morton  stepped  out. 

"You  are  very  welcome,  Sally,  dear,"  she  said,  kissing 
her;  "as  welcome  as  could  be.  I  will  see  Doctor  Sanderson 
in  the  morning.  Come  down  whenever  you  feel  like  it.  It 
has  been  a  trying  night  for  you." 

Sally's  eyes  were  full  of  tears  as  she  softly  closed  her  own 
door. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THERE  were  times  when,  in  spite  of  disease,  death, 
or  disaster,  Mrs.  John  Upjohn  had  to  have  clothes; 
more  clothes,  no  doubt  I  should  say,  or  other  clothes. 
At  any  rate,  when  such  occasions  were  imminent,  Mrs.  Up 
john  was  wont  to  summon  the  dressmaker  to  come  to  her 
house,  and  the  dressmaker  would  come  promptly  and  would 
camp  in  the  house  until  the  siege  was  over,  going  home  only 
to  sleep.  One  would  think  that  Mrs.  Upjohn  might  have 
offered  Letty  Lambkin  a  bed  to  sleep  in,  for  Letty  had  been 
a  schoolmate  of  hers  before  misfortune  overtook  her;  and 
Mrs.  Upjohn  had  beds  to  spare  and  Letty  always  arrived 
before  breakfast  and  stayed  until  after  supper.  Perhaps  such 
an  offer  would  have  offended  a  sensitive  spirit.  That  is  only 
a  guess,  of  course,  for  I  have  no  means  of  knowing  what 
Mrs.  Upjohn's  ideas  were  upon  that  subject.  At  all  events, 
she  never  gave  Letty  a  chance  of  being  offended  at  any 
such  offer. 

An  occasion  such  as  I  have  mentioned  arose  on  the  day 
of  the  Hazens'  fire,  and  Mrs.  Upjohn  had  accordingly  sent 
John  Junior  around  to  Letty's  house  with  the  customary 
message.  Which  message  John  Junior  had  delivered  with 
an  air  of  great  dejection  and  with  the  very  evident  hope  that 
Miss  Lambkin  would  be  unable  to  come.  But,  alas!  Miss 
Lambkin  smiled  at  John  cheerfully  and  told  him  to  tell  his 
mother  that  she  would  be  there  bright  and  early  in  the  morn 
ing;  that  she  had  felt  it  in  her  bones  that  Alicia  Upjohn 
would  be  wanting  her  on  that  day,  and  she  had  put  off 
Mrs.  Robbins  and  Mrs.  Sarjeant  on  purpose  so's  Alicia 
would  n't  have  to  wait. 

Whereupon  John  Junior  muttered  unintelligibly  and  turned 
away,  leaving  Miss  Lambkin  gazing  fondly  after  him  and 


216  CONCERNING  SALLY 

calling  after  him  to  know  if  it  was  n't  cold.  John  Junior 
muttered  again,  inaudibly  to  Miss  Lambkin,  but  not  unin 
telligibly.  He  was  not  fond  of  those  sieges,  to  say  the  least. 

"Darn  it!"  he  muttered,  kicking  viciously  at  the  ice. 
"That  means  two  weeks  and  I  can't  stay  at  Hen's  all  the 
whole  time  for  two  weeks.  A  fellow  has  to  be  at  home  for 
meals.  If  she  only  was  n't  there  for  breakfast  and  supper!" 
John  Junior  kicked  viciously  at  the  ice  again;  and,  the 
ice  proving  refractory,  he  stubbed  his  toe  and  almost  fell. 
"Ow!"  he  said;  "darn  it!"  But  that  was  an  afterthought. 
He  betook  him  to  the  harbor. 

There  is  some  reason  to  believe  that  the  late  John  Senior 
had  not  regarded  these  visitations  with  more  favor  than  did 
his  son;  there  were  some  that  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that 
his  end  had  been  hastened  by  them  and  by  the  semian 
nual  house-cleaning.  Mrs.  Upjohn  was  considered  a  notable 
housekeeper.  "She  takes  it  hard,"  he  had  said  to  Hen's 
father  in  an  unguarded  moment  of  confidence.  Hen's  father 
had  laughed.  Hen's  mother  was  not  a  notable  housekeeper. 
John  Senior  had  sighed.  At  that  time  there  was  but  one  club 
in  Whitby.  He  was  not  a  member  of  that  club.  Such  men  as 
Hugh  Morton  and  Gerrit  Torrington  were  members;  even 
John  Hazen  was  said  to  be  a  member,  although  he  was  never 
at  the  club-rooms.  So  even  that  solace  was  denied  to  John 
Senior.  He  could  n't  stay  at  Hen's  house  all  the  time  either ; 
and,  there  seeming  to  be  no  other  way  of  escape,  he  up  and 
had  a  stroke  and  died  in  two  hours.  At  least,  so  rumor  ran, 
the  connection  between  cause  and  effect  being  of  rumor's 
making.  I  have  no  wish  to  contradict  it.  I  have  no  doubt 
that  I  should  have  wanted  to  do  as  John  Senior  had  done. 
Very  possibly  Patty  had  some  such  wish. 

The  two  weeks  of  Letty  were  now  up  and  the  end  was  not 
insight.  She  and  Mrs.  Upjohn  sat  in  Mrs.  Upjohn's  sewing- 
room,  which  was  strewn  with  unfinished  skirts  and  waists 
and  scraps  of  cloth.  Letty  sewed  rapidly  on  the  skirt;  Mrs. 
Upjohn  sewed  slowly  —  very,  very  slowly  —  on  something. 
It  really  did  not  matter  what.  If  the  completion  of  Mrs. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  217 

Upjohn's  clothes  had  depended  upon  Mrs.  Upjohn's  unaided 
efforts  she  would  never  have  had  anything  to  wear. 

"Where's  Patty  gone,  Alicia?"  asked  Letty,  a  thread  be 
tween  her  teeth.  "Hospital?" 

Mrs.  Upjohn  stopped  sewing.  "Yes,"  she  replied  in  her 
deliberate  way.  "  I  believe  her  father  is  worse.  She  got  a 
message  this  morning  before  you  came,  and  I  think  it  was 
unfavorable,  to  judge  by  her  face." 

"Land !"  said  Miss  Lambkin.  " I  guess  he's  going  to  die. 
He's  a  pretty  old  man.  Eighty,  if  he's  a  day,  would  be  my 
guess. 

Mrs.  Upjohn  nodded.    "Just  eighty." 

"Pretty  good  guess,  I  call  it."  Miss  Lambkin  laughed. 
"I  thought  he  must  be  pretty  sick,  or  Patty  would  n't  be 
out  of  the  house  as  soon  as  ever  breakfast  was  over  and  not 
turn  up  again  until  dinner-time.  Then,  as  like  as  not,  she'd 
be  gone  the  whole  afternoon.  I  hear  he's  got  pneumonia." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  nodded  again. 

"And  I  hear,"  Letty  continued,  "that  he  got  it  getting 
chilled  and  wet  the  night  of  the  fire.  'T  was  an  awful  cold 
night,  and  he  would  stay  around  the  house  and  try  to  tell  the 
firemen  what  they  sh'd  do.  Of  course,  they  could  n't  help 
squirting  on  him  some." 

"I  hope,"  said  Mrs.  Upjohn,  "that  they  did  n't  mean  to." 

"I  hope  not,"  Miss  Lambkin  returned.  "I  sh'd  think  the 
ones  that  did  it  would  have  it  on  their  consciences  if  they 
did.  They  tell  me  that  Sally  Ladue  discovered  the  fire.  She 
and  that  Doctor  Sanderson  have  been  at  the  Mortons'  ever 
since  and,  if  you  can  believe  all  you  hear,  neither  of  'em 
likes  it  any  too  well.  Mrs.  Morton's  nice  to  her  —  she 
can  be  as  nice  as  nice  to  them  that  she  likes,  though  you 
would  n't  always  think  it  —  but  Everett's  the  trouble." 

It  was  contrary  to  Mrs.  Upjohn's  principles  to  look  sur 
prised  at  any  piece  of  information  —  and  as  if  she  had  not 
heard  it  before.  She  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"A  good  many  girls,"  she  remarked,  "would  give  their 
eyes  to  be  at  the  Mortons'  for  two  weeks." 


2i8  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"I  guess  that 's  what's  the  trouble  with  Everett,"  said 
Miss  Lambkin  pointedly.  "Too  much  girl;  and  I  guess  he 
is  n't  any  too  particular  about  the  kind  either." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  was  curious.  To  be  sure,  she  was  always 
curious,  which  was  a  fact  that  she  flattered  herself  she  con 
cealed  very  neatly.  Other  people  were  not  of  the  same 
opinion. 

"Why,  Letty  ?  "  she  asked  frankly.  She  seldom  allowed  her 
curiosity  to  be  so  evident.  "I've  never  heard  of  his  being 
seen  with  any  girls  that  he  ought  not  to.be  with.  Have  you?" 

"Oh,  not  in  Whitby,"  replied  Miss  Lambkin.  "Not  for 
Joseph!  As  far's  that  goes,  he  is  n't  seen  very  often  with 
girls  that  he  ought  to  be  with.  But  I  hear  that  when  he 's 
in  Boston  it's  a  different  story.  Of  course,  I  have  n't  seen 
him  with  my  own  eyes,  but  I  have  reliable  information. 
You  know  he  goes  to  Boston  for  weeks  at  a  time." 

"M-m,"  assented  Mrs.  Upjohn,  rocking  quietly  and  com 
fortably.  "He  stays  at  the  best  hotels,  I  believe." 

"Registers  at  the  most  expensive,"  corrected  Miss  Lamb 
kin,  "  I  have  no  doubt.  I  s'pose  he  stays  there  some  of  the 
time.  To  tell  the  truth,"  she  confessed,  somewhat  crest 
fallen  at  having  to  make  the  humiliating  confession,  "I 
did  n't  just  hear  what  Everett  does  that  Sally  Ladue  does  n't 
like." 

"Oh,"  said  Mrs.  Upjohn.  She  did  not  look  up  and  there 
was  a  certain  air  of  triumph  in  the  way  she  uttered  that 
simple  syllable  which  grated  on  Miss  Lambkin's  sensibili 
ties. 

"Sally's  a  sort  of  high-and-mighty  girl,"  continued  Miss 
Lambkin  tentatively. 

"Sally 's  a  nice  girl  and  a  good  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Upjohn  cor 
dially;  "  capable,  I  should  say." 

"No  doubt  she  is,"  Letty  returned  without  enthusiasm. 
"It's  rather  strange  that  she  is  all  that,  considering  what 
her  father  did." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  laughed  comfortably.  "  I  used  to  know  her 
father.  There  was  no  telling  what  he  would  do." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  219 

"Ran  off  with  another  woman,"  said  Letty,  "and  some 
money.  That's  what  I  heard." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  laughed  again.  "He  disappeared,"  she  con 
ceded.  "I  never  heard  that  there  was  any  other  woman  in 
the  case  and  I  'm  reasonably  sure  there  was  n't  any  money." 

"He  has  n't  ever  been  heard  of  since?" 

Mrs.  Upjohn  shook  her  head. 

"And  he  left  them  without  any  money?  I  thought  he 
stole  it." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  Doctor  Sanderson  kept  them  afloat  for 
some  time,  I  believe,  until  Patty  asked  Sally  here.  Then 
he  got  Mrs.  Ladue  into  Doctor  Galen's  hospital." 

"M-m,"  Letty  murmured  slowly.  She  had  a  needle  be 
tween  her  lips  or  she  would  have  said  "O-oh."  She  re 
moved  the  needle  for  the  purpose  of  speech.  "So  that's 
Doctor  Sanderson's  connection  with  the  Ladues.  I  always 
wondered.  It  might  have  been  'most  anything.  His  sis 
ter  's  up  and  coming.  She  '11  have  Dick  Torrington  if  he 
don't  look  out.  She's  made  the  most  of  her  visit." 

Letty 's  murmur  might  have  meant  much  or  it  might  have 
meant  nothing  at  all.  At  all  events,  Mrs.  Upjohn  let  it  go 
unchallenged,  possibly  because  her  curiosity  was  aroused 
by  what  Letty  said  later.  She  asked  no  questions,  however. 
She  only  waited,  receptively,  for  further  communications 
on  the  subject  of  Henrietta  and  Dick.  Miss  Lambkin  did 
not  vouchsafe  further  information  on  that  subject,  but 
immediately  branched  off  upon  another. 

"  I  'm  told,"  she  said,  with  the  rapidity  of  mental  change 
that  marked  her  intellectual  processes,  "that  John  Hazen's 
house  was  in  an  awful  state  the  morning  after  the  fire.  I  went 
around  there  as  soon's  ever  I  could,  to  see  what  I  could  see, 
but  the  door  was  locked  and  I  could  n't  get  in.  I  looked  in 
the  windows,  though,  and  the  furniture 's  all  gone  from  some 
of  the  rooms,  even  to  the  carpets.  There  was  a  ladder  there, 
and  I  went  up  it,  and  the  bedroom  was  all  stripped  clean.  I 
could  n't  carry  the  ladder,  so  I  did  n't  see  the  others.  I 
made  some  inquiries  and  I  was  told  that  the  furniture  was 


2eo  CONCERNING  SALLY 

all  stored  in  the  stable.  That  was  n't  burned  at  all,  you 
know.  I  thought  that  perhaps  Patty  'd  been  and  had  it 
moved,  though  it  don't  seem  hardly  like  her.  It's  more  like 
John  Hazen  himself.  But  he  was  n't  able." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  "It  wasn't 
Patty,"  she  replied,  "or  I  should  have  known  it.  I  guess 
it  was  Sally.  Perhaps  Doctor  Sanderson  helped,  but  it  is 
just  like  Sally.  She's  a  great  hand  to  take  hold  and  do 
things." 

"You  don't  tell  me!"  said  Miss  Lambkin.  "But  I  don't 
suppose  she  did  it  with  her  own  hands.  I  should  n't  won 
der,"  she  remarked,  "if  she'd  find  some  good  place  to  board, 
the  first  thing  you  know.  She  might  go  to  Miss  Miller's. 
She  could  take  'em,  I  know,  but  she  would  n't  have  room  for 
Doctor  Sanderson,  only  Sally  and  her  mother  and  Charlie. 
Charlie's  a  pup,  that's  what  he  is.  But  I  can't  see,  for  the 
life  of  me,  what  Doctor  Sanderson  keeps  hanging  around  here 
for.  Why  don't  he  go  home?  " 

Not  knowing,  Mrs.  Upjohn,  for  a  wonder,  did  not  under 
take  to  say.  Miss  Lambkin  hazarded  the  guess  that  the 
doctor  might  be  sparking  around  Sally;  but  Mrs.  Upjohn 
did  not  seem  to  think  so. 

"Well,"  Letty  went  on,  "I  wonder  what  the  Hazens  '11 
do.  It'd  cost  an  awful  sight  to  repair  that  house;  almost  as 
much  as  to  build  a  new  one.  What  insurance  did  you  hear 
they  had?  Has  Patty  said?  —  This  skirt  is  about  ready  to 
try  on,  Alicia.  I  want  to  drape  it  real  nice.  Can't  you  stand 
on  the  table?" 

She  spread  a  folded  newspaper  on  the  top  of  the  table. 

"There!  Now,  you  won't  mar  the  top.  Take  your  skirt 
right  off  and  climb  up." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  was  a  heavy  woman  and  she  obeyed  with 
some  difficulty.  Miss  Lambkin  continued  in  her  pursuit 
of  information  while  she  draped  the  skirt. 

"You  haven't  answered  about  the  insurance,  Alicia. 
What  did  Patty  say  about  it?  I  don't  suppose  Patty  'd 
know  exactly  and  I  would  n't  trust  her  guess  anyway.  John 


CONCERNING  SALLY  221 

Hazen  never  seemed  to,  to  any  extent.  Patty 's  kind  o'  flighty, 
is  n't  she,  and  cracked  on  the  men,  although  you  would  n't 
think  it  from  her  highty-tighty  manner.  She  used  to  think 
she  was  going  to  marry  Meriwether  Beatty,  I  remember. 
Land !  He  had  no  more  idea  of  marrying  her  than  I  had.  And 
she 's  been  cracked  on  every  man  that 's  more  'n  spoken  to 
her  since.  She 's  got  the  symptoms  of  nervous  prostration ; 
all  the  signs  of  it.  I  should  n't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  she  went 
crazy,  one  o'  these  days.  If  Doctor  Sanderson  is  looking  for 
patients  for  his  sanitarium  he  need  n't  look  any  farther. 
Patty 'sit.  Turn  around,  Alicia.  I  don't  get  a  good  light  on 
the  other  side.  Why,  Patty's  — " 

Mrs.  Upjohn  had  heard  the  front  door  shut.  "  Sh-h-h!  " 
she  cautioned.  "Here's  Patty  now." 

They  heard  Patty  come  slowly  up  the  stairs  and,  although 
there  were  no  sounds  of  it,  she  seemed  to  be  weeping. 

"Now,  I  wonder,"  whispered  Miss  Lambkin,  "what's  the 
matter.  Do  you  s'pose  her — " 

"  Sh,  Letty !  She  '11  hear  you.  I  '11  get  down  and  go  to  her." 

"Without  a  skirt,  Alicia?" 

But  Mrs.  Upjohn  did  riot  heed.  She  got  down  from  the 
table,  clumsily  enough,  and  went  to  the  door.  Patty  had 
just  passed  it. 

"Patty!"  Mrs.  Upjohn  called  softly.  "Is  there  anything 
the  matter?" 

Patty  turned  a  miserable,  tear-stained  face.  "It  —  it's 
all  o-over,"  she  said  dully. 

"Your  father?"  asked  Mrs.  Upjohn.  She  spoke  in  an  awe 
struck  whisper  in  spite  of  herself.  Did  not  Death  deserve 
such  an  attitude? 

Patty  nodded  silently.  "  I  'm  so  sorry,  Patty,"  Mrs.  Up- 
john's  sympathy  was  genuine.  "  I  am  so  sorry." 

"Oh,  Alicia,"  Patty  cried  in  a  burst  of  grief,  "my  father's 
d-dead." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  folded  ample  arms  about  her  and  patted  her 
on  the  shoulder  as  if  she  had  been  a  child.  '.'There,  there, 
Patty !  I  'm  just  as  sorry  as  I  can  be ;  and  so  will  everybody 


222  CONCERNING  SALLY 

be  as  soon  as  they  hear  of  it.  But  you  just  cry  as  much  as 
you  want  to.  It'll  do  you  good." 

So  they  stood,  Mrs.  Upjohn  unmindful  of  the  fact  that  she 
had  no  skirt  and  Patty  crying  into  a  lavender  silk  shoulder. 

"Land!"  The  voice  was  the  voice  of  Miss  Lambkin  and 
it  proceeded  from  the  doorway.  "  I  'm  awfully  sorry  to  hear 
your  father's  dead,  Patty.  How  did  — " 

Patty  lifted  her  head  majestically  from  the  lavender  silk 
shoulder.  "My  grief  is  sacred,"  she  murmured;  and  fled 
to  her  room. 

" Mercy  me !"  muttered  Miss  Lambkin.  "I  did  n't  have 
my  kid  gloves  on.  I  ought  to  have  known  better 'n  to 
speak  to  Patty  without  'em.  You  may  as  well  come  back, 
Alicia,"  she  continued  in  a  louder  voice,  "and  finish  with 
that  skirt.  Perhaps,  now,  you'll  be  wanting  a  new  black 
dress.  Your  old  one's  pretty  well  out  of  fashion." 

She  filled  her  mouth  with  pins  while  Mrs.  Upjohn  again 
mounted  the  table. 

Mrs.  Upjohn  shook  her  head  slowly.  "  No,"  she  answered, 
"I  guess  the  old  one  will  do  for  a  while  yet.  I  should  n't 
want  one  for  anything  but  the  funeral  anyway,  and  you 
could  n't  begin  to  get  one  done  by  that  time.  It  would  be 
different  if  it  was  a  relative." 

"It's  curious,"  remarked  Miss  Lambkin,  as  well  as  she 
could  with  her  mouth  full  of  pins,  "  how  things  go.  Now, 
there  's  many  of  our  relatives  —  mine,  anyway  — that  we 
could  spare  as  well  as  not;  better  than  some  of  those  that 
are  no  kin  to  us.  And  we  have  to  wear  black  for  them  and 
try  to  look  sorry.  Black  is  n't  becoming  to  some,  but  it 
seems  to  me  you'd  look  full  as  well  in  it  as  you  do  in  that 
lavender,  and  that  place  on  your  shoulder  where  Patty 
cried  tears  is  going  to  show  anyway.  But,  as  I  was  going  to 
say,  a  man  like  JohnHazen  is  going  to  be  missed.  I  wonder 
who  was  there,  at  his  death-bed.  Patty,  of  course,  and 
Sally  Ladue,  I  s'pose,  and  maybe  Mrs.  Ladue  and  Meri- 
wether  Beatty.  Sally  was  real  fond  of  her  Uncle  John  and 
he  of  her.  It 's  my  opinion  that  Sally  '11  be  sorrier  than  Patty 


CONCERNING  SALLY  223 

will.  Come  right  down  to  it,  Patty  is  n't  so  broken-hearted 
as  she  likes  to  think,  though  she'll  miss  him." 

To  this  Mrs.  Upjohn  agreed,  but  Letty  did  not  wait  for 
her  reply. 

"And  I  wonder,"  she  went  on,  working  rapidly  while  she 
talked,  "how much  he's  left.  Patty  hasn't  said,  I  s'pose. 
I  don't  s'pose  she  'd  have  much  of  an  idea  anyway,  and  I 
don't  know's  anybody  could  tell  until  his  business  is  all 
settled  up.  He  had  quite  a  number  of  vessels,  and  it  seems 
a  great  pity  that  there  is  n't  anybody  to  take  his  business 
up  where  he  left  it.  He  did  well  with  it,  I 'm  told.  It's  my 
guess  that  you  '11  find  that  John  Hazen  's  left  Sally  a  good 
big  slice." 

"I  hope  so,  with  all  my  heart."  Mrs.  Upjohn  spoke  cor 
dially,  as  she  did  invariably  of  Sally. 

"My!"  Letty  exclaimed  with  an  anticipatory  squeal  of 
delight.  "Would  n't  it  put  Patty  in  a  proper  temper  if  he 
had!  Now,  Alicia,"  she  said,  standing  back  and  looking 
the  skirt  up  and  down,  "  we  '11  call  that  skirt  right.  It  hangs 
well,  if  I  do  say  it.  Take  it  off  and  I  '11  finish  it  right  up. 
You  can  come  down  now." 


CHAPTER  VII 

Miss  LAMBKIN  was  right.  Sally  found  a  place  to 
board  —  a  nice  place,  to  quote  Letty  Lambkin, 
although  it  was  not  Miss  Miller's.  No  doubt  Letty 
was  sorry  that  Sally  had  not  chosen  Miss  Miller's,  for  Miss 
Miller  was  an  especial  friend  of  Letty 's;  and,  by  choosing 
another  place,  Sally  had  cut  off,  at  a  blow,  a  most  reliable 
source  of  information.  Very  possibly  Sally  did  not  think  of 
this,  but  if  she  had,  it  would  have  been  but  one  more  argu 
ment  in  favor  of  her  choice,  for  Mrs.  Stump  could  n't  bear 
Letty,  and  she  had  vowed  that  she  should  never  darken  her 
door.  Letty  would  not  have  darkened  the  door  very  much. 
She  was  a  thin  little  thing.  But,  if  Sally  did  not  think  of  it, 
Letty  did,  and  she  regretted  it.  She  even  went  so  far  as  to 
mention  it  to  Mrs.  Upjohn. 

"If  Sally  Ladue  thinks  she's  getting  ahead  of  me,"  she 
said,  with  sharp  emphasis,  "she'll  find  she's  mistaken.  I 
have  my  sources  of  information." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  did  not  reprove  her.  She  had  an  inordinate 
thirst  for  information  which  did  not  concern  her,  and  Letty 
was  the  most  unfailing  source  of  it.  So  she  only  smiled 
sympathetically  and  said  nothing.  She  was  sorry  to  be 
deprived  of  such  accurate  information  about  Sally  as  Miss 
Miller  would  have  supplied,  but  she  still  had  Patty.  In  fact, 
Mrs.  Upjohn  was  beginning  to  wonder  how  much  longer  she 
was  to  have  Patty.  Patty  seemed  to  have  no  thought  of 
going.  Indeed,  she  would  not  have  known  where  to  go. 
Patty  was  entering  upon  some  brand-new  experiences, 
rather  late  in  life.  Already  she  was  beginning  to  miss  the 
pendulum. 

Before  Sally  took  this  step  which  seemed  to  be  so  much 
more  important  to  others  than  to  herself,  various  things  had 


CONCERNING  SALLY  225 

happened,  of  which  Miss  Lambkin  could  have  had  no  know 
ledge,  even  with  her  reliable  sources  of  information.  Everett 
Morton  had  had  an  interview  with  his  mother,  at  her  re 
quest.  He  would  not  have  sought  an  interview,  for  he  had 
a  premonition  of  the  subject  of  it. 

Mrs.  Morton  was  one  of  those  rare  women  whom  wealth 
had  not  spoiled;  that  is,  not  wholly;  not  very  much,  indeed. 
There  was  still  left  a  great  deal  of  her  natural  self,  and  that 
self  was  sweet  and  kind  and  yielding  enough,  although,  on 
occasions,  she  could  be  as  decided  as  she  thought  necessary. 
This  was  one  of  the  occasions.  The  interview  was  nearly 
over.  It  had  been  short  and  to  the  point,  which  concerned 
Sally. 

"Well,  Everett,"  said  Mrs.  Morton  decidedly,  "your  atti 
tude  towards  Sally  Ladue  must  be  changed.  I  have  n't  been 
able  to  point  out,  as  exactly  as  I  should  like  to  do,  just  where 
it  fails  to  be  satisfactory.  But  it  does  fail,  and  it  must  be 
changed." 

Everett  was  standing  by  the  mantel,  a  cigarette  between 
his  fingers.  "  You  do  not  make  your  meaning  clear,  my  dear 
mother,"  he  replied  coldly.  "  If  you  would  be  good  enough 
to  specify  any  speech  of  mine?  Anything  that  I  have  said,  at 
any  time?"  he  suggested.  "If  there  has  been  anything  said 
or  done  for  which  I  should  apologize,  I  shall  be  quite  ready 
to  do  so.  It  is  a  little  difficult  to  know  what  you  are  driving 
at."  And  he  smiled  in  his  most  exasperating  way. 

Mrs.  Morton's  color  had  been  rising  and  her  eyes  glit 
tered.  Everett  should  have  observed  and  taken  warning. 
Perhaps  he  did. 

"  Everett,"  she  said,  as  coldly  as  he  had  spoken  and  more 
incisively,  "you  exhibit  great  skill  in  evasion.  I  wish  that 
you  would  use  your  skill  to  better  advantage.  I  have  no 
reason  to  think  that  there  have  been  any  words  of  yours  with 
which  I  could  find  fault,  although  I  do  not  know  what  you 
have  said.  But  Sally  could  be  trusted  to  take  care  of  that. 
It  is  your  manner." 

Everett  laughed.  "But,  my  dear  mother!"  he  protested, 


226  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"  I  can't  help  my  manner.  As  well  find  fault  with  the  color 
of  my  eyes  or  — " 

His  mother  interrupted  him.  "  You  can  help  it.  It  is  of  no 
use  to  pretend  that  you  don't  know  what  I  mean.  You  have 
wit  enough." 

"Thank  you." 

"And  your  manner  is  positively  insulting.  You  have  let 
even  me  see  that.  Any  woman  would  resent  it,  but  she 
would  n't  speak  of  it.  She  could  n't.  Don't  compel  me  to 
specify  more  particularly.  You  put  Sally  in  a  very  hard 
position,  Everett,  and  in  our  own  house,  too.  You  ought  to 
have  more  pride,  to  say  the  least;  the  very  least." 

Everett's  color  had  been  rising,  too,  as  his  mother  spoke. 
"I  am  obliged  for  your  high  opinion.  May  I  ask  what  you 
fear  as  the  consequence  of  my  insulting  manner?" 

"You  know  as  well  as  I,"  Mrs.  Morton  answered;  "but  I 
will  tell  you,  if  you  wish.  Sally  will  go,  of  course,  and  will 
think  as  badly  of  us  as  we  deserve." 

"That,"  Everett  replied  slowly,  "could  perhaps  be  borne 
with  equanimity  if  she  takes  Doctor  Sanderson  with  her." 

Mrs.  Morton  laughed  suddenly.  "Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "so 
that  is  it !  I  must  confess  that  that  had  not  occurred  to  me. 
Now,  go  along,  Everett,  and  for  mercy's  sake,  be  decent." 

Everett's  color  was  still  high,  but  if  he  felt  any  embarrass 
ment  he  succeeded  in  concealing  it  under  his  manner,  of 
which  his  mother  seemed  to  have  so  high  an  opinion. 

He  cast  his  cigarette  into  the  fire.  "  If  you  have  no  more 
to  say  to  me,  then,  I  will  go,"  he  said,  smiling  icily.  His 
mother  saying  nothing,  but  smiling  at  him,  he  bowed  — 
English  model  —  and  was  going  out. 

Mrs.  Morton  laughed  again,  suddenly  and  merrily.  "Oh, 
Everett,  Everett!"  she  cried.  "How  old  are  you?  I  should 
think  you  were  about  twelve." 

"Thank  you,"  he  replied ;  and  he  bowed  again  and  left  her. 

So  Mrs.  Morton  had  not  been  surprised  when  Sally  came 
to  her,  a  day  or  two  later,  to  say  that  she  thought  that  they 
—  Doctor  Sanderson  and  she  —  had  imposed  upon  Mrs. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  227 

Morton's  kindness  long  enough  and  that  she  had  found  a 
boarding-place  for  her  mother  and  Charlie  and  herself. 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  say  that  I  am  not  surprised,  Sally, 
dear,"  Mrs.  Morton  returned,  "although  I  am  grievously 
disappointed.  I  had  hoped  that  you  would  stay  with  us 
until  the  house  was  habitable  again.  I  have  tried,"  she 
added  in  some  embarrassment,  "to  correct  — " 

Sally  flushed  quickly.  "Please  don't  speak  of  it,  dear  Mrs. 
Morton,"  she  said  hastily.  "It  is  —  there  has  been  no 
thing—" 

"Nonsense,  Sally!  Don't  you  suppose  I  see,  having  eyes? 
But  we  won't  speak  of  it,  except  to  say  that  I  am  very  sorry. 
And  I  think  that  you  would  n't  be  annoyed  again.  Won't 
you  think  better  of  your  decision  and  stay  until  you  can  go 
to  your  own  house?" 

"Oh,  but  nobody  knows  when  that  will  be,"  Sally  replied, 
smiling.  ' '  Nothing  has  been  done  about  it  yet.  Patty  does  n't 
seem  to  know  what  to  do.  Uncle  John  was  the  moving  spirit." 
There  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"I  know,  Sally,  dear,  I  know.  I  am  as  sorry  as  I  can  be. 
I  am  afraid,"  she  added  with  a  queer  little  smile,  "that  I 
am  sorrier  for  you  than  I  am  for  Patty." 

"Thank  you.  But  you  ought  not  to  be,  you  know,  for  he 
rather — well,  he  steadied  Patty." 

Mrs.  Morton  laughed.  "Yes,  dear,  I  know.  And  you 
did  n't  need  to  be  steadied.  But  I  'm  afraid  that  I  am,  just 
the  same." 

So  it  was  settled,  as  anything  was  apt  to  be  concerning 
which  Sally  had  made  up  her  mind.  Mrs.  Ladue  did  not  re 
ceive  the  announcement  with  unalloyed  joy.  She  smiled  and 
she  sighed. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  settled,"  she  said,  "or  you  would  not  have 
told  me.  Oh,"  seeing  the  distress  in  Sally's  face,  "it  ought 
to  be.  It  is  quite  time.  We  have  made  a  much  longer  visit 
upon  Mrs.  Torrington  than  we  ought  to  have  made,  but 
I  can't  help  being  sorry,  rather,  to  exchange  her  house  for 
Mrs.  Stump's.  But  why,  Sally,  if  you  found  it  unpleasant — " 


228  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Oh,  mother,  I  did  n't  say  it  was  unpleasant.  Mrs.  Mor 
ton  was  as  kind  as  any  one  could  possibly  be." 

"  I  am  glad,  dear.  I  was  only  going  to  ask  why  Fox  stayed." 

Fox  murmured  something  about  Christian  martyrs  and 
a  den  of  lions,  and  Mrs.  Ladue  laughed.  Then  she  sighed 
again. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "all  right,  Sally.  You  will  let  me  know, 
I  suppose,  when  we  are  to  go.  We  can't  stay  on  here  for 
ever,  although  I  'd  like  to." 

At  that  moment  Dick  came  in.  "Why  not?"  he  asked. 
"Why  not  stay,  if  you  like  it?" 

"How  absurd,  Dick!"  Sally  protested.  "You  are  very 
kind,  but  you  know  mother  will  have  to  go  pretty  soon. 
And  I  've  found  a  very  good  place." 

"If  Sally  says  so,  it's  so,"  Dick  retorted,  "and  there's 
no  use  in  saying  any  more  about  it.  Mrs.  Stump's  or  Miss 
Miller's?" 

Fox  had  been  looking  out  of  the  window.  He  turned. 
"Mrs.  Ladue,"  he  asked  suddenly,  "will  you  go  sleighing 
with  me  to-morrow?  It  will  be  about  my  last  chance,  for 
I  go  back  when  Sally  leaves  the  Mortons'." 

"Oh,"  cried  Sally,  "why  not  me,  too?  And  Henrietta?" 

Fox  smiled  at  her.  "There's  a  reason,"  he  said.  "I'll 
take  you  when  the  time  is  ripe.  I  have  something  to  show 
your  mother  and  we  have  to  go  after  it." 

"Can't  you  get  it  and  show  it  to  me,  too?" 

Fox  shook  his  head.  "  I 'm  afraid  not.  It  is  n't  mine,  for 
one  thing." 

"Oh,"  said  Sally,  her  head  in  the  air.  "And  I  suppose 
you'll  go  in  the  morning,  when  I'm  in  school." 

"That  might  not  be  a  bad  idea.  We  might  be  followed. 
Can  you  go  in  the  morning,  Mrs.  Ladue?" 

She  laughed  and  nodded.  She  would  go  at  any  time  that 
suited  him. 

So  it  chanced  that  Fox  and  Mrs.  Ladue  started  out,  the 
next  morning.  Fox  drove  along  Apple  Tree  Street  and  turned 
into  another  street. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  229 

"Is  n't  this  Smith  Street?"  asked  Mrs.  Ladue  doubtfully. 
"Where  are  we  going,  Fox?" 

"I'm  astonished  at  your  question,"  he  replied.  "You 
ought  to  know  that  this  is  still  Witch  Lane  for  all  the  old 
families,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  it  is  known,  officially,  as 
Smith  Street.  I  have  yet  a  very  distinct  recollection  of  Miss 
Patty's  lamentations  over  the  change.  That  was  ten  years 
ago,  when  Sally  first  arrived." 

Mrs.  Ladue  laughed.  She  would  have  laughed  at  any 
thing  that  morning. 

"But,  do  you  mind  telling  me  where  we  are  going?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  exactly,  as  I  am  not  very  familiar  with 
the  country  here.  I  know  where  I  am  going,"  he  explained 
hastily,  "but  I  doubt  if  I  could  tell  you.  We  shall  come  to 
the  end  of  the  built-up  part  pretty  soon,  and  then  it  takes 
us  out  into  the  country.  There  '11  be  a  turn  or  two,  and  what 
I  want  you  to  see  is  about  two  miles  out.  Mr.  Morton,"  he 
added,  "put  a  horse  at  my  service,  and  I  have  been  exploring. 
I  have  not  wasted  my  time." 

Mrs.  Ladue  made  no  reply.  She  was  happy  enough,  with 
out  the  need  of  speech.  They  drove  on,  past  the  built-up 
part,  as  Fox  had  said,  past  more  thinly  scattered  houses, 
with  little  gardens,  the  corn-stubble  already  beginning  to 
show  above  the  snow,  here  and  there,  for  it  had  been  thaw 
ing.  Then  they  began  to  pass  small  farms,  and  then,  as  they 
made  the  first  of  the  turn  or  two,  the  farms  were  larger,  and 
there  were  rows  of  milk-cans  on  their  pegs  in  the  sun. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Ladue  laughed.  "Now  I  know  where  I 
am,"  she  exclaimed.  "That  is,  I  remember  that  Uncle  John 
Hazen  brought  me  out  here  one  day,  nearly  two  years  ago. 
He  wanted  to  show  me  something,  too." 

Fox  turned  and  looked  at  her.  "That  is  interesting,"  he 
said.  "  I  wonder  if  he  showed  you  the  same  place  that  I  am 
going  to  show  you." 

Mrs.  Ladue  only  smiled  mysteriously;  and  when,  at  last, 
Fox  stopped  his  horse  and  said  "There!"  she  was  laughing 
quietly.  He  looked  puzzled. 


230  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"The  same,"  she  said.    "The  very  same." 

"Well,"  Fox  replied  slowly,  "I  admire  his  taste.  It  is 
worth  looking  at." 

It  was  a  very  large  house,  looking  out  from  beneath  its 
canopy  of  elms  over  a  wide  valley;  a  pleasant  prospect  of 
gentle  hills  and  dales,  with  the  little  river  winding  quietly 
below. 

"It  is  worth  looking  at,"  said  Fox  again.  He  looked  at 
her,  then.  She  was  not  laughing,  but  there  was  a  merry  look 
in  her  eyes.  "What  amuses  you?  I  should  rather  like  to 
know.  Isn't  my  hat  on  straight?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I'll  tell  you  before  long.  But  it  is 
really  nothing."  Truly  it  didn't  need  much  to  amuse  her  on 
that  day. 

He  looked  at  her  again,  then  looked  away.  "The  house 
looks  as  if  it  might  have  been  a  hotel,"  he  remarked;  "a 
little  hotel,  with  all  the  comforts  of-home.  It  is  very  home 
like.  It  seems  to  invite  you." 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "it  does." 

"And  the  barn,"  he  went  on,  "is  not  too  near  the  house, 
but  yet  near  enough,  and  it  is  very  well  ordered  and  it  has 
all  the  modern  improvements.  All  the  modern  improve 
ments  include  a  tiled  milking-room  and,  next  to  it,  a  tiled 
milk-room  with  all  the  most  improved  equipment,  and  a 
wash-room  for  the  milkers  and  a  herd  of  about  twenty- 
five  registered  Guernseys.  I  know,  for  I  have  been  over 
it." 

"That  sounds  very  good.  I  know  very  little  about  such 
things." 

"  I  have  had  to  know.  It  is  a  part  of  my  business.  That 
barn  and  that  outfit  would  be  very  convenient  if  the  house 
were  —  for  instance  —  a  private  hospital.  Now,  would  n't 
it?" 

She  made  no  reply  and  he  turned  to  her  again.  She  was 
looking  at  him  in  amazement,  and  her  face  expressed  doubt 
and  a  dawning  gladness. 

"Oh,  Fox!" 


CONCERNING  SALLY  231 

"Now,  would  n't  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  in  a  low  voice. 

"And  the  house  seems  not  unsuitable  for  such  a  purpose. 
I  have  not  been  over  the  house." 

"Fox!  Will  you  tell  me  what  you  mean?" 

He  laughed  out.  "The  old  skinflint  who  lives  there  says 
he  can't  sell  it.  He  seemed  very  intelligent,  too;  intellect 
enough  to  name  a  price  if  he  wanted  to.  And  I  would  not 
stick  at  the  price  if  it  were  within  the  bounds  of  reason." 

"I  think,"  Mrs.  Ladue  remarked,  "that  I  could  tell  you 
why  your  old  skinflint  could  n't  sell  it." 

"Why?"  Fox  asked  peremptorily. 

"When  you  have  shown  me  all  you  have  to  show,"  she 
answered,  the  look  of  quiet  amusement  again  about  her 
eyes  and  mouth,  " I  will  tell  you;  that  is,  if  you  tell  me  first 
what  you  mean." 

He  continued  looking  for  a  few  moments  in  silence.  She 
bore  his  scrutiny  as  calmly  as  she  could.  Then  he  turned, 
quickly,  and  drew  the  reins  tight. 

"  Get  up,  you  ancient  scion  of  a  livery  stable."  The  horse 
started  reluctantly.  "There  is  something  else,"  he  added, 
"just  down  the  road  a  bit." 

" I  thought  so,"  she  said.  "It  is  a  square  house,  painted 
a  cream  color,  with  a  few  elms  around  it,  and  quite  a  grove 
at  a  little  distance  behind  it." 

"  It  is.   But  you  forgot  the  barn  and  the  chicken-houses." 

She  laughed  joyously.    "  I  did  n't  think  of  them." 

"And  the  well-sweep." 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  did  n't  think  of  that,  either." 

"  I  should  really  like  to  know  how  you  knew,"  he  observed, 
as  if  wondering.  "  Perhaps  it  is  not  worth  while  going  there. 
But  I  want  to  see  it  again,  if  you  don't." 

"  Oh,  I  do.  I  am  very  much  interested,  and  you  know  you 
are  to  tell  me  what  you  are  planning." 

"Yes,"  he  replied.  " I  meant  to  tell  you.  That  was  what 
I  brought  you  for.  But  I  thought  you  would  be  surprised 
and  I  hoped  that  you  might  be  pleased." 


232  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Trust  me  for  that,  Fox,  if  your  plans  are  what  I  hope 
they  are.  If  they  are,  I  shall  be  very  happy." 

They  stopped  in  the  road  before  the  square  house  that 
was  painted  cream  color.  Fox  gazed  at  it  longingly.  It 
seemed  to  be  saying,  "Come  in!  Come  in!"  and  reaching 
out  arms  to  him.  There  was  the  old  well  at  one  side,  with 
its  great  sweep.  The  ground  about  the  well  was  bare  of  snow 
and  there  was  a  path  from  it  to  the  kitchen  door.  Thin  curls 
of  smoke  were  coming  lazily  from  each  of  the  great  chimneys. 

He  sighed,  at  last,  and  turned  to  Mrs.  Ladue.  "I  should 
like  to  live  there,"  he  said. 

"You  would  find  it  rather  a  hardship,  I  am  afraid,"  she 
returned,  watching  him  closely,  "depending  upon  that 
well,  picturesque  as  it  is." 

He  laughed.  "Easy  enough  to  lay  pipes  from  the  hotel, 
back  there."  He  nodded  in  the  direction  of  the  larger  house, 
the  one  of  the  twenty-five  Guernseys  and  the  model  barn. 
"They  have  a  large  supply  and  a  power  pump.  Ask  me 
something  harder." 

"The  heating,"  she  ventured.  "Fires  —  open  fires  — 
are  very  nice  and  necessary.  But  they  would  n't  be  suf 
ficient." 

He  laughed  again.  "  It  is  not  impossible  to  put  in  a  heat 
ing-system.  One  might  even  run  steam  pipes  along  with  the 
water  pipes  and  heat  from  their  boilers.  I  press  the  button, 
they  do  the  rest." 

"Well,  I  can't  seem  to  think  of  any  other  objection.  And 
there  is  a  very  good  view." 

"A  very  good  view,"  he  repeated.  He  was  silent  for  a 
while.  "  I  have  done  very  well  in  the  past  five  or  six  years," 
he  said  then,  "and  the  wish  that  has  been  growing  —  my 
dearest  wish,  if  you  like  —  has  been  to  establish  a  sort  of 
private  hospital  about  here  somewhere.  It  would  n't  be  a 
hospital,  exactly;  anyway,  my  patients  might  not  like  the 
word.  And  I  should  hate  to  call  it  a  sanitarium.  Call  it 
Sanderson's  Retreat."  He  smiled  at  the  words.  "That 'sit. 
We'll  call  it  Sanderson's  Retreat." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  233 

It  would  have  warmed  his  heart  if  he  could  have  seen  her 
face;  but  he  was  not  looking. 

"  I  am  very  glad,  Fox,"  she  murmured.  "That  makes  me 
very  happy." 

"Sanderson's  Retreat?"  he  asked,  turning  to  her.  "But 
I  have  n't  got  it.  Just  as  I  thought  I  had  found  it  I  found 
that  I  could  n't  get  it." 

"Perhaps  that  old  skinflint  who  lives  there  does  n't  own 
it,"  she  suggested. 

"Of  course  I  thought  of  that,"  he  answered,  with  some 
impatience.  "But  how  am  I  to  find  out  about  it  without 
exciting  the  cupidity  of  the  native  farmers?  Once  aroused, 
it  is  a  terrible  thing.  I  might  advertise:  'Wanted,  a  place 
of  not  less  than  fifty  acres,  with  large  house  commanding 
a  good  view  over  a  valley,  a  herd  of  about  twenty-five 
Guernseys,  a  barn  with  all  the  modern  improvements,  and 
a  power  pump.  Price  no  object.'  Rather  narrows  it  down  a 
trifle." 

Mrs.  Ladue  almost  chuckled.  "I  won't  keep  you  in  sus 
pense,"  she  said.  "  Uncle  John  owned  it  when  he  brought  me 
out  here.  He  told  me  so.  And  he  owned  this  house,  too." 

"Uncle  John!"  cried  Fox.  "He  knew  a  thing  or  two, 
did  n't  he?  I  wish  I  had  found  it  while  he  was  living.  Now, 
I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  buy  it  of  Miss  Patty;  that  is,  if  I 
can.  Who  is  the  executor  of  the  will?  Do  you  know?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  haven't  heard  anything  about 
the  will,  yet.  I  think  it's  likely  to  be  Dick  Torrington. 
Uncle  John  seemed  to  like  Dick  very  much  and  he  thought 
very  well  of  him." 

"I'll  see  Dick  Torrington  to-day.  We  may  as  well  go 
back."  He  turned  the  horse  about;  then  stopped  again, 
looking  back  at  the  cream-colored  house.  He  looked  for  a 
long  time.  "It's  very  pleasant,"  he  said,  at  last,  sighing. 
"Those  trees,  now  —  those  in  the  grove  —  do  they  strike 
you  as  being  suitable  for  a  gynesaurus  to  climb?  Do  they?" 
he  asked  softly. 

His  eyes  looked  into  hers  for  a  moment.    His  eyes  were 


234  CONCERNING  SALLY 

very  gentle  —  oh,  very  gentle,  indeed,  and  somewhat  wist 
ful;  windows  of  the  soul.  At  that  moment  he  was  laying 
bare  his  heart  to  her.  She  knew  it;  it  was  a  thing  she  had 
never  known  him  to  do  before. 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  heart ;  an  involuntary  move 
ment.  "Oh,  Fox!"  she  breathed.  "Oh,  Fox!"  Then  she 
spoke  eagerly.  "Will  you  —  are  you  going  to  — " 

He  smiled  at  her,  and  his  smile  was  full  of  gentleness  and 
patience.  "I  hope  so,"  he  answered.  "In  the  fullness  of 
time.  It  is  a  part  of  my  dearest  wish.  Yes,  when  the  time 
is  ripe,  I  mean  to.  Not  yet.  She  is  not  ready  for  it  yet." 

"She  is  nearly  twenty-one,"  Mrs  Ladue  said  anxiously, 
"and  beginning  to  be  restless  under  her  teaching.  Don't 
wait  too  long,  Fox.  Don't  wait  too  long." 

"I  have  your  blessing,  then?  I  have  your  best  wishes  for 
my  success?" 

"You  know  you  have,"  she  murmured,  a  little  catch  in 
her  voice. 

"  I  thought  that  I  could  count  on  them,"  he  replied  grate 
fully,  "but  I  thank  you  for  making  me  certain  of  it." 

She  seemed  as  if  about  to  speak;  but  she  said  nothing, 
after  all.  Fox  smiled  and  took  up  the  reins  again.  The  drive 
back  was  a  silent  one.  Fox  was  busy  with  his  own  thoughts ; 
and  Mrs.  Ladue,  it  is  to  be  supposed,  was  busy  with  hers. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DICK  TORRINGTON  was  out  when  Fox  called  at  his 
office,  early  that  afternoon.  They  were  expecting 
him  at  any  moment.  He  had  not  come  back  from 
lunch  yet.  He  did  not  usually  stay  so  long  and  would  n't 
Doctor  Sanderson  take  a  seat  and  wait  a  few  minutes?  Ac 
cordingly,  Doctor  Sanderson  took  a  seat  and  waited  a  few 
minutes.  He  waited  a  good  many  minutes.  He  read  the 
paper  through ;  then  paced  slowly  up  and  down  the  waiting- 
room.  Were  they  sure  Mr.  Torrington  would  come  back? 
Oh,  yes,  they  thought  so.  They  did  not  know  what  could  be 
keeping  him.  So  Doctor  Sanderson  thought  he  would  wait 
a  few  minutes  longer. 

The  truth  was  that  it  was  Henrietta  who  was  keeping 
Dick  away  from  his  office  and  his  waiting  clients.  As  she 
was  to  go  within  a  few  days,  Dick  thought  the  time  propi 
tious  for  taking  her  for  a  last  sleigh-ride ;  it  might  happen  to 
be  the  last  and  it  might  not.  Henrietta,  too,  thought  the 
time  propitious.  I  don't  know  what  Fox  would  have  thought, 
if  he  had  known  it.  Most  likely  he  would  have  grinned  and 
have  said  nothing,  keeping  his  thoughts  to  himself.  He  was 
an  adept  at  keeping  his  thoughts  to  himself.  But  there  is 
reason  to  believe  that  he  would  not  have  waited.  Just  as 
his  patience  was  utterly  exhausted  and  he  was  going  out, 
Dick  came  in.  There  was  a  rather  shamefaced  grin  of  plea 
sure  on  his  face  which  changed  to  a  welcoming  smile  when 
he  saw  Fox.  It  was  a  very  welcoming  smile ;  more  welcoming 
than  the  occasion  seemed  to  call  for.  Fox  wondered  at  it. 
But  he  was  not  to  find  out  the  reason  that  day. 

They  came  to  business  at  once.  Dick  was  the  executor, 
but  he  had  not  notified  the  beneficiaries  under  the  will  yet.  It 


236  CONCERNING  SALLY 

was  really  a  very  short  time  since  Mr.  Hazen's  death.  Fox, 
wondering  what  that  had  to  do  with  the  matter,  protested 
mildly  that  the  only  question  with  him  was  whether  he  could 
buy  certain  properties  of  the  estate.  He  would  prefer  to 
deal  with  Dick  rather  than  with  Miss  Patty. 

Dick  laughed.  "Oh,"  he  said,  "I  forgot  that  you  did  n't 
know.  Those  pieces'of  property  that  you  are  after  —  I  know 
very  well  what  they  are,"  he  interrupted  himself  to  say, 
"and  I  can  guess  what  you  want  them  for  —  those  pieces 
of  property  were  left  to  Sally.  I  shall  have  to  refer  you  to 
her." 

Fox's  amazement  was  comical.  "Left  to  Sally!"  he  ex 
claimed.  "Well!  And  it  never  occurred  to  me." 

"It  probably  has  never  occurred  to  Sally  either,"  Dick 
suggested.  "She  has  more  than  that.  Her  uncle  John  was 
very  fond  of  her." 

"  I  am  sure  that  it  has  not  occurred  to  Sally.  What  will 
Miss  Patty  think?" 

Dick  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "  Nobody 
does.  I  don't  know  just  how  she  feels  toward  Sally.  If  it 
were  Charlie,  now,  —  but  it  is  n't.  About  these  properties, 
you  will  have  to  see  Sally.  She  is  n't  at  liberty  to  dispose  of 
them  yet,  but  if  she  agrees  to,  there  will  be  no  difficulty. 
I  shall  not  stand  in  the  way  of  your  doing  anything  you 
want  to  do  with  them.  It  happens  that  the  lease  of  them 
runs  out  in  a  few  months.  I  really  don't  believe  that  Miss 
Patty  will  contest  the  will,  even  if  she  does  n't  just  like  it. 
Mr.  Hazen's  word  was  the  law,  you  know." 

Fox  was  looking  out  of  the  window  and,  as  he  looked,  his 
glance  chanced  to  fall  upon  Miss  Patty  herself,  stepping 
along  in  a  way  which  she  had  fondly  flattered  herself  was 
dainty. 

He  smiled.  "You  never  can  tell  about  these  nervous  pa 
tients,"  he  observed.  "They  may  do  anything  —  or  they 
may  not.  But  I  think  I  'd  better  see  Sally  and  break  the 
news." 

He  found  the  chance  on  the  evening  of  that  same  day. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  237 

Everett  went  out,  immediately  after  dinner,  as  was  his  habit, 
and  Mrs.  Morton  left  them  alone.  Sally  was  reading. 

"Sally,"  said  Fox,  "I  understand  that  you  are  an  heir 
ess." 

Sally  put  down  her  book  suddenly  and  gave  him  a  startled 
glance.  "  Oh,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  hope  not !  Who  told  you?  " 

"  Dick  Torrington.  He  is  the  executor." 

"Oh,  Fox!"  she  cried.  She  seemed  dismayed.  "And  Dick 
knows.  But  Patty  will  never  forgive  me.  Can't  I  help  it?" 

"No  doubt,"  he  replied,  smiling,  "but  I  hope  you  won't, 
for  I  want  to  buy  some  of  your  property." 

She  laughed  joyously.  "  I'll  give  it  to  you,  you  mercenary 
man !  At  last,  Fox,  I  can  get  even  with  you  —  but  only 
partly,"  she  hastened  to  add;  "only  partly.  Please  say  that 
you'll  let  me  give  it  to  you." 

Fox  was  embarrassed.  "Bless  you,  Sally!"  he  said.  At 
that  moment,  he  was  very  near  to  heeding  Mrs.  Ladue's 
injunction  not  to  wait  too  long.  He  stopped  in  time.  "  Bless 
you,  Sally!  You  have  paid  me.  I  don't  need  money  any 
way." 

"Neither  do  I." 

"The  time  may  come  when  you  will.  It  is  a  handy  thing 
to  have,"  he  went  on.  "I  promise  to  let  you  pay  me  some 
day,"  he  added  hastily,  seeing  that  she  was  about  to  insist, 
"in  kind." 

Sally  nodded  with  satisfaction.  "  I '11  do  it,"  she  said,  "in 
kind.  That  usually  means  potatoes  and  corn  and  firewood, 
does  n't  it." 

"Not  this  time,  it  does  n't.  But  I  can't  let  you  think  of 
giving  me  these  places." 

"You  can't  help  my  thinking  of  giving  them  to  you,"  she 
interrupted. 

"For  you  don't  even  know  what  they  are,"  Fox  continued. 
"  I  did  n't  mean  to  tell  you  yet,  but  I  have  to."  And  he  told 
her  what  he  wanted  to  do ;  but  only  a  part.  It  is  to  be  noted 
that  he  said  nothing  about  gynesauruses  and  coal-trees. 

When  he  had  finished  Sally  sighed.    "It's  too  bad  that 


238  CONCERNING  SALLY 

I  can't  give  them  to  you,  Fox.  I  think  it  would  be  a  very 
good  way;  an  excellent  way." 

"Excellent?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  excellent,"  Sally  answered,  looking  at  him  and  smil 
ing  in  her  amused  way.  "Why  is  n't  it?" 

"Nonsense!  It's  absurd;  preposterous.  It's  positively 
shocking.  Sally,  I  'm  surprised  at  you." 

Sally  shook  her  head.  "No,"  she  said  obstinately,  "it's 
an  excellent  way  to  do.  You  can't  say  why  it  is  n't.  Why, 
just  think,  then  I  should  feel  that  I  could  come  there  when 
I  am  old  or  when  I  break  down  from  overwork.  Teachers 
are  apt  to  break  down,  I  understand,  and  now,  when  they 
do,  there  seems  to  be  no  course  open  to  them  but  to  hire  a 
hearse  —  if  they  've  saved  money  enough.  Think  how  much 
easier  I  should  feel  in  my  mind  if  Sanderson's  Retreat  were 
open  to  me."  And  Sally  chuckled  at  the  thought. 

"But  Sanderson's  Retreat  would  be  open  to  you  in  any 
case,"  Fox  protested.  "You  would  not  have  to  hire  a  hearse. 
It  is  my  business  to  prevent  such  excursions.  Have  I  ever 
failed  you,  Sally?" 

"Oh,  Fox,  never."  There  were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  got 
up  quickly  and  almost  ran  to  him.  "Never,  never,  Fox. 
That  is  why,  don't  you  see?  I  want  to  do  something  for  you, 
Fox.  You  have  done  so  much  for  me  —  for  us." 

He  was  standing  by  the  fire.  As  she  came,  he  held  out  his 
hands  and  she  gave  him  both  of  hers.  Ah !  Doctor  Sander 
son,  you  are  in  danger  of  forgetting  your  resolution;  that 
resolution  which  you  thought  was  so  wise.  In  truth,  the 
words  trembled  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  But  Sally's  "for 
us"  brought  him  to  his  senses. 

"Oh,  Sally,  Sally!"  he  said  ruefully.  "You  don't  know. 
You  don't  know." 

"  Well,"  Sally  replied  impatiently,  after  she  had  waited  in 
vain  for  some  moments  for  him  to  finish,  "what  don't  I 
know?  I  don't  know  everything.  I  am  aware  of  that,  and 
that  is  the  first  step  to  knowledge." 

"You  come  near  enough  to  it,"  he  returned,  as  if  speaking 


CONCERNING  SALLY  239 

to  himself.  He  was  looking  down,  as  he  spoke,  into  great 
gray  eyes  which,  somehow,  were  very  soft  and  tender.  He 
looked  away.  "Sometime  you  will  know." 

"Everything?"  asked  Sally,  smiling. 

"Everything  that  is  worth  knowing,"  he  answered  gently. 
"Yes,  everything  that  is  worth  knowing,"  he  repeated,  slowly. 

Sally  pondered  for  a  brief  instant;  then  flushed  a  little, 
but  so  little  that  you  would  scarcely  have  noticed  it,  es 
pecially  if  you  had  been  looking  away  from  her,  as  Fox  was 
at  some  pains  to  do. 

"We  have  not  settled  that  question,  Fox,"  she  said.  He 
still  held  her  hands,  but  he  scarcely  glanced  at  her.  "Fox," 
—  giving  him  a  gentle  shake,  —  "pay  attention  and  look 
at  me."  He  looked  at  her,  trying  not  to  let  his  eyes  tell 
tales.  Very  likely  Sally  would  think  they  told  of  no  more 
than  the  brotherly  affection  which  she  had  become  used  to, 
from  him.  Very  likely  that  was  what  she  did  think.  She 
gave  no  sign  that  she  saw  more  than  that,  at  any  rate. 
"Please  let  me  give  them  to  you,"  she  pleaded,  eagerly. 
"I  want  to." 

He  shook  his  head.  "Oh,  Sally,  Sally!"  he  said  again.  "It 
is  hard  enough  to  refuse  you  anything;  but  I  can't  let  you 
do  this,  for  your  own  sake.  What  would  people  think?" 

"Oh,  fiddle !  What  business  is  it  of  theirs?  And  how  would 
they  know  anything  about  it?" 

"I  have  no  doubt  there  are  some  who  would  at  once  in 
stitute  inquiries.  You  probably  know  such  people." 

Sally  chuckled.  "  Letty  Lambkin  might.  But  what  would 
it  matter  if  they  did?" 

"  I  should  hate  to  think  that  I  was  responsible  for  making 
you  talked  about." 

"Then  you  won't  take  them,  Fox?  Not  even  if  I  get  down 
on  my  knees?"  Again  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

Fox  shook  his  head.  "I  can't,"  he  said  gently.  "I  can't 
take  them  on  those  terms." 

Sally  sighed  and  smiled.  "So  I  am  repulsed,  then.  My 
gifts  are  spurned." 


240  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Fox  was  very  uncomfortable.   "  But,  Sally  — "he  began. 

She  brightened  suddenly.  "I  know!"  she  cried.  "I '11  lease 
them  to  you  for  ninety-nine  years.  Is  n't  that  what  they 
do  when  they  can't  do  anything  else?  And  you'll  have  to 
pay  —  oh,  ever  so  much  rent." 

He  laughed.  "All  right.  I  guess  that'll  be  as  long  as  I 
shall  have  use  for  them.  But  you'll  have  to  charge  me 
enough." 

"Oh,  I'll  charge  you  enough,"  she  said  nodding;  "never 
fear.  I  '11  consult  Dick  and  take  his  advice.  Then  perhaps 
you'll  be  satisfied." 

"  I  '11  be  satisfied,"  he  replied.  "  I  'm  very  grateful,  Sally." 

"Nonsense!  You're  not.  You're  only  complacent  be 
cause  you  think  you've  had  your  own  way,  and  I  did  n't 
mean  that  you  should  have  it."  She  took  her  hands  away  at 
last.  "  Here 's  Mrs.  Morton,"  she  said  gently. 


CHAPTER   IX 

WHAT  Patty  really  thought  about  the  provisions  of 
her  father's  will  is  not  recorded.  Indeed,  it  is 
doubtful  whether  she  had  anything  more  nearly 
approaching  consecutive  thought  on  the  subject  than  a 
vague  resentment  toward  Sally  and  a  querulous  disposition 
to  find  fault  with  her.  For,  with  the  lapse  of  years,  Patty 
was  becoming  less  and  less  able  to  think  rationally  —  to 
direct  her  thoughts  —  or  to  think  consecutively  on  any  sub 
ject.  She  had  never  been  conspicuous  for  her  ability  in  that 
direction.  What  she  said  was  another  matter.  What  business 
had  Sally  to  benefit  by  her  father's  will?  A  poor  relation 
whom  she,  Patty,  had  befriended,  no  more.  It  never  occurred 
to  her  to  blame  her  father  any  more  than  it  occurred  to  her 
to  tell  the  whole  truth  about  that  little  matter  of  befriend 
ing.  Patty  thought  that  she  told  the  truth.  She  meant  to. 

There  was  some  excuse  for  Patty's  disappointment.  One 
does  not  easily  rest  content  with  but  little  more  than  half  a 
fortune  when  one  has,  for  years,  had  reason  to  expect  the 
whole  of  it.  It  was  a  modest  fortune  enough,  but  the  fact 
that  it  turned  out  to  be  nearly  twice  what  Patty  had  counted 
upon,  and  that,  consequently,  she  was  left  with  just  about 
what  she  had  expected,  did  not  make  her  disappointment 
any  the  lighter,  but  rather  the  reverse.  And  she  did  not 
stop  to  consider  that  she  would  be  relieved  of  what  she  was 
pleased  to  term  the  burden  of  supporting  the  Ladues,  and 
that  she  would  have,  at  her  own  disposal,  more  money  than 
she  had  ever  had.  Not  at  all.  Even  when  Dick  pointed  out 
to  her  that  very  fact,  it  did  not  change  her  feeling.  Some 
how,  she  did  not  know  exactly  how,  Sally  had  cheated  her 
out  of  her  birthright.  She  would  n't  call  it  stealing,  but  — 

"No,"  Dick  observed  cheerfully.     "I  should  think  you 


242  CONCERNING  SALLY 

had  better  not  call  it  that.  It  will  be  as  well  if  you  restrain 
your  speech  on  the  subject." 

That  was  rather  a  strong  remark  for  Dick  Torrington  to 
make,  but  he  felt  strongly  where  Sally  was  concerned.  He 
felt  strongly  where  Patty  was  concerned;  but  the  feeling 
was  different. 

It  was  not  strange  that,  in  the  face  of  such  feeling  on 
Patty's  part,  Sally  should  feel  strongly,  too.  She  did  feel 
strongly.  She  was  genuinely  distressed  about  it  and  would 
have  been  glad  to  give  up  any  benefits  under  the  will,  and 
she  went  to  Dick  and  told  him  so.  He  tried  to  dissuade  her 
from  taking  such  a  course.  There  were  other  aspects  of  such 
a  case  than  the  mere  feeling  of  one  of  the  heirs  about  another. 
Why,  wills  would  be  practically  upset  generally  if  any  one 
heir,  by  making  a  sufficiently  strong  protest,  could,  to  use 
Dick's  own  words,  freeze  out  the  others,  and  it  would  be  of 
little  use  for  a  man  to  make  a  will  if  many  were  of  Sally's 
mind.  In  this  case,  as  usually  in  such  cases,  the  will  expressed 
the  testator's  own  well-founded  intention.  Mr.  Hazen  had 
expected  some  such  outburst  from  Patty.  Was  that  to  pre 
vent  his  wish,  his  will  from  being  carried  out?  He  earnestly 
hoped  not.  All  socialists  to  the  contrary,  notwithstanding, 
he  was  of  the  opinion  that  any  man,  living  or  dead,  should  be 
able  to  do  as  he  liked  with  his  own ;  that  is,  with  certain  rea 
sonable  reservations,  which  would  not  apply  in  the  case  of 
her  Uncle  John. 

"I  suppose,  Sally,"  he  concluded,  "that  if  he  had  given 
it  to  you  while  he  was  living,  you  would  have  taken  it,  per 
haps?" 

"No,  indeed,"  Sally  replied  indignantly.  "Of  course  I 
would  n't.  What  made  you  think  that,  Dick?" 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  think  it.  Well, 
would  it  make  any  difference  in  your  feeling  about  it  to  know 
that  he  felt  that  Miss  Patty  was  not  competent  to  take  care 
of  it?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  sighed .  "I  don't  see  that  it  would ; 
I  can't  unravel  the  right  and  wrong  of  it.  If  you  think  that 


CONCERNING  SALLY  243 

my  taking  it  would  have  pleased  Uncle  John,  and  if  you  tell 
me  that  Patty  has  as  much  as  she  can  wish  — " 

"Oh,  not  that.  But  she  has  enough  to  enable  her  to  live 
in  luxury  the  rest  of  her  life." 

Sally  laughed.  "We  have  great  possibilities  when  it 
comes  to  wishing,  have  n't  we?  And  you  advise  my  taking 
it?" 

"Most  certainly." 

"Then  I  will." 

"I  wonder  why,"  Dick  asked,  "you  don't  want  it?" 

She  hesitated  for  an  instant.  "  I  do,"  she  said,  then,  laugh 
ing  again.  "That's  just  the  trouble.  If  I  had  n't  wanted  it 
I  might  have  been  more  ready  to  take  it." 

She  met  Captain  Forsyth  on  the  way  home.  She  had  just 
been  thinking  that,  after  all,  she  could  let  Fox  go  ahead  with 
his  Retreat.  She  would  not  have  to  back  out  of  that  bar 
gain,  for  which  she  was  glad.  And  there  were  other  things — 

It  was  at  this  point  in  her  reflections  that  Captain  Forsyth 
bore  down  and  hailed  her.  She  answered  his  hail  with  a  smile 
and  waited. 

"  I  was  just  going  into  Dick  Torrington's  office,"  he  began, 
in  a  gentle  roar,  "to  get  him  to  reason  with  you.  I  heard, 
Sally,  that  you  were  thinking  of  refusing  the  legacy  of  your 
Uncle  John." 

She  nodded.    "  I  was,  but  — " 

"Don't  you  do  it,"  he  shouted  earnestly.  He  could  have 
been  heard  for  a  block,  if  there  had  been  anybody  to  hear 
him.  "Don't  you  do  it,  Sally!  You  must  n't  let  Patty  scare 
you  out  of  taking  what  he  meant  that  you  should  have  — 
what  he  wanted  you  to  have.  She'll  have  enough;  more 
than  she  can  take  care  of.  Patty  could  n't  take  proper  care 
of  a  cat.  And  John  Hazen  was  very  fond  of  you,  Sally.  You 
do  this  much  for  him." 

"I'm  going  to,  Captain  Forsyth,"  she  answered  gently. 
"I've  just  told  Dick  so." 

"Well,  I'm  glad,"  he  said,  with  satisfaction.  "It's  been 
on  my  mind  for  some  days,  and  I  thought  I'd  better  see 


244  CONCERNING  SALLY 

what  I  could  do  about  it.  Your  Uncle  John  said  a  good  deal 
about  you,  first  and  last.  He  'd  be  pleased.  When  you  want 
anything,  come  to  me ;  though  you  're  not  likely  to  be  want 
ing  anything  unless  it 's  advice.  I  've  barrels  of  that  ready. 
Good-bye,  Sally." 

Sally  went  home  —  if  Mrs.  Stump's  could  be  called  home 
—  rather  depressed  in  spirits.  In  spite  of  what  people  con 
sidered  her  good  fortune,  she  continued  in  low  spirits  all 
through  that  spring  and  summer.  Patty,  to  be  sure,  was 
covertly  hostile,  but  that  was  hardly  enough  to  account  for 
it.  Sally  was  aware  of  the  unhealthy  state  of  her  mind  and 
thought  about  it  more  than  was  good  for  her.  It  is  a  bad 
habit  to  get  into ;  a  very  reprehensible  habit,  and  she  knew  it, 
but  she  could  n't  help  it.  You  never  can  help  doing  it  when 
you  most  should  n't.  It  reminded  her  of  the  shiftless  man's 
roof,  which  needed  shingling. 

Very  likely  she  was  only  tired  with  her  winter's  teaching 
and  with  the  events  which  had  been  crowded  into  those  few 
weeks.  They  were  important  events  for  her  and  had  been 
trying.  She  began  to  hesitate  and  to  have  doubts  and  to 
wonder.  It  was  not  like  Sally  to  have  doubts,  and  she  who 
hesitates  is  lost.  She  said  so  to  herself  many  times,  with  a 
sad  little  smile  which  would  almost  have  broken  Fox's  heart 
if  he  had  seen  it,  and  would  surely  have  precipitated  an  event 
which  ought  to  have  been  precipitated. 

But  Fox  was  not  there  to  see  it  and  to  help  her  in  her  time 
of  doubt,  and  to  be  precipitate  and  unwise.  She  found 
herself  wondering  whether  she  had  better  keep  on  with  her 
teaching,  now  that  she  did  not  have  to.  There  was  less 
incentive  to  it  than  there  had  been.  Was  it  worth  while? 
Was  anything  worth  while,  indeed?  What  had  she  to  look 
forward  to  after  years  of  teaching,  when  her  enthusiasm 
was  spent?  Was  it  already  spent?  What  was  there  in  it  but 
going  over  the  same  old  round,  year  after  year?  What  was 
there  at  the  end?  If  the  children  could  be  carried  on,  year 
after  year  —  if  they  were  her  own  —  and  Sally  blushed 
faintly  and  stopped  there. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  245 

But  she  wondered  whether  Henrietta  had  been  right. 
What  Henrietta  had  said  so  lightly,  the  night  of  the  fire,  had 
sunk  deeper  than  Sally  knew  or  than  Henrietta  had  intended. 
Sally  was  beginning  to  think  that  Henrietta  was  right  and 
that  girls,  down  at  the  bottom  of  their  hearts,  were  looking 
for  men.  She  did  n't  like  to  confess  it  to  herself.  She  shrank 
from  the  whole  subject;  but  why  shouldn't  they  —  the 
girls  —  provided  it  is  only  at  the  bottom  of  their  hearts? 
They  did;  some  of  them  did,  at  any  rate.  It  is  doubtful 
whether  Sally  probed  as  deep  as  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 
Perhaps  she  was  afraid  to. 

Yes,  as  I  started  out  by  saying,  no  doubt  she  was  only 
tired,  —  beat  out,  as  Miss  Lambkin  would  have  said;  and 
she  was  lonelier  than  she  had  ever  been.  She  missed  Uncle 
John.  It  seemed  to  her  that  there  was  nobody  to  whom  she 
could  turn.  Probably  Captain  Forsyth  had  had  some  such 
idea  when  he  made  his  clumsy  offer  of  advice.  But  Captain 
Forsyth  would  not  do.  Sally  would  have  been  glad  enough 
of  somebody  to  turn  to.  It  was  a  peculiarly  favorable  time 
for  Fox,  if  he  had  only  known  it.  It  was  a  rather  favorable 
time  for  anybody;  for  Jane  Spencer,  or  even  for  Everett 
Morton.  For  Everett  had  begun,  as  anybody  could  see  with 
half  an  eye,  as  Letty  Lambkin  put  it  briskly.  Altogether 
Sally's  affairs  had  become  a  fit  topic  of  conversation  for 
people  who  bother  themselves  about  other  people's  busi 
ness. 

Miss  Lambkin  did.  She  had  tried  to  talk  with  Mrs.  Sar- 
jeant  about  the  matter,  but  Mrs.  Sarjeant  had  promptly 
shut  her  up.  Whereupon  Miss  Lambkin,  with  her  head  in 
the  air,  had  betaken  herself  to  Mrs.  Upjohn. 

Mrs.  Upjohn  did  not  shut  her  up.  She  wanted  to  hear  what 
Letty  had  to  tell  and  she  wished  to  contribute  whatever  she 
could,  that  Letty  did  not  know,  to  the  fund  of  general  in 
formation;  without  seeming  to,  of  course. 

"Well,  Alicia,"  Letty  began,  as  soon  as  she  had  got  into 
the  house  and  before  she  had  had  time  to  remove  her  hat,  "  I 
thought  I  'd  come  and  do  for  you  now,  even  if  it  is  a  week 


246  CONCERNING  SALLY 

before  the  time  I  set.  Mrs.  Sarjeant  can  wait  awhile,  I 
guess.  She  can't  need  me.  She  told  me  yesterday  that  she 
did  n't  care  to  listen  to  gossip.  As  if  I  gossiped,  Alicia !  Why, 
I  was  only  saying  that  Sally  Ladue  and  Everett  seemed  to 
be  pretty  thick  now,  and  I  should  n't  wonder  if  they  hit  it 
off.  And  I  should  n't,  either,  Mrs.  Sarjeant  or  no  Mrs.  Sar 
jeant.  Anybody  can  see  he's  paying  her  attention  and  she's 
letting  him."  Miss  Lambkin  shut  her  lips  with  a  snap. 
"Now,  is  n't  he?" 

Mrs.  Upjohn  did  not  answer  her  directly.  She  only 
laughed  comfortably  and  suggested  that  they  go  right  up 
to  the  sewing-room. 

"Patty  made  you  quite  a  visit,  did  n't  she?"  Letty  began 
again,  while  she  hunted  scissors  and  needles  and  a  tape. 
"Did  you  have  to  send  her  off  to  Miss  Miller's?" 

Mrs.  Upjohn  shook  her  head. 

"That's  a  good  thing.  It  would  n't  have  been  pleasant," 
Miss  Lambkin  resumed.  "I  hear  that  she's  feeling  real 
bitter  towards  Sally  and  that  Sally  means  to  live  some 
where  else,  whether  Patty  repairs  the  house  or  not,  but 
Patty  won't  hear  to  it.  I  notice,  though,  that  nothing's 
been  done  to  the  house  yet.  I'm  told  that  Patty's  going 
right  at  it.  She'd  better,  if  she  wants  to  live  there  before 
next  summer,  for  this  is  September  and  the  builders  are 
awful  deliberate.  Now  that  Doctor  Sanderson  does  n't  let 
the  grass  grow  under  his  feet.  Did  you  know  that  his  new 
hospital's  going  to  be  ready  before  cold  weather?  And  he 
has  n't  been  here,  himself,  more  'n  a  day  at  a  time.  Where 's 
that  little  cutting-table,  Alicia?  In  your  room?  I'll  just 
run  in  and  get  it.  You  sit  still." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  did  not  like  to  trust  Letty  alone  in  her  room, 
for  she  had  the  eye  of  a  hawk;  but  Letty  was  gone  before 
she  could  prevent  her.  She  was  back  in  a  moment,  and  Mrs. 
Upjohn  breathed  more  freely. 

"As  I  was  saying,"  Miss  Lambkin  continued,  "that  Doc 
tor  Sanderson  had  better  be  looking  out  if  he  wants  Sally 
Ladue.  Maybe  he  don't,  but  I  notice  that  Eugene  Spencer 's 


CONCERNING  SALLY  247 

fluttering  around  her  again  and  Everett's  doing  more'n 
flutter. 

"  It  seems  queer  to  think  of  Everett  as  anything  but  what 
he  has  been  for  some  years.  He  is  n't  much  in  favor  with 
some  of  the  older  men.  I  heard  that  Cap'n  Forsyth  said 
that  he  would  n't  trust  him  with  a  slush-bucket.  And  that 
pup  of  a  brother  of  Sally's  is  copying  after  Everett  as  well 
as  he  can.  He's  going  to  college  in  a  couple  of  weeks  and 
there 's  no  telling  what  he  '11  be  up  to  there.  I  'm  glad  I  don't 
have  the  running  of  him.  Everett's  no  pattern  to  cut  my 
goods  to." 

"  No,"  agreed  Mrs.  Upjohn  soberly.  "  I  can't  think  what 
has  come  over  Sally.  I  never  thought  she  would  be  dazzled, 
though  I  won't  deny  that  Everett  can  be  attractive." 

"Come  to  that,"  snapped  Miss  Lambkin,  "Everett's 
handsome  and  rich  and,  as  you  say,  he  knows  how  to  be  at 
tractive.  Anyway,  there 's  a  plenty  that  would  be  only  too 
glad  to  have  a  chance  at  him.  Now,  if  you  were  of  a  suitable 
age,  Alicia,  you'd  snap  him  up  quick  enough  if  you  had  the 
chance,  and  you  know  it." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  only  murmured  an  unintelligible  protest,  but 
her  color  rose.  She  would  have  snapped  him  up,  and  she 
knew  it.  Letty  Lambkin  was  really  getting  to  be  unbearable. 


CHAPTER  X 

CHARLIE  LADUE  was  a  bright  boy  and  a  handsome  boy, 
and  he  had  good  enough  manners.  His  attempts  at 
seeming  bored  and  uninterested  only  amused  certain 
intelligent  persons  in  Cambridge,  to  whom  he  had  introduc 
tions,  and  attracted  them.  He  was  very  young  and  rather 
distinguished  looking  and  these  were  the  hall-marks  of 
youth ;  of  youth  which  wishes  to  be  thought  of  an  experience 
prehistoric;  of  youth  which  dreads  nothing  else  so  much  as 
to  appear  young.  He  would  get  over  these  faults  quickly ;  and 
these  intelligent  persons  laughed  quietly  to  themselves  and 
continued  to  ask  him  to  their  houses  —  for  a  time.  But  the 
faults  rather  grew  upon  him  than  lessened,  so  that  he  be 
came  a  nuisance  and  seemed  likely  to  become  worse,  and 
they  quietly  dropped  him,  before  he  was  half  through  his 
freshman  year. 

His  faults  were  his  own,  of  course.  Faults  always  are 
one's  own  when  all  is  said  and  done,  and  they  usually  come 
home  to  roost ;  but  that  they  had  developed  to  such  an  ex 
tent  was  largely  due  to  Patty's  indulgence  and  over-fond 
ness.  She  was  to  blame,  but  not  wholly.  It  is  hard  to  fix  the 
blame,  even  supposing  that  it  would  help  the  matter  to  fix 
it.  When  they  came  to  Whitby,  Sally  was  too  young  to  op 
pose  Miss  Patty,  and  for  four  years  Charlie  had  no  mother; 
much  longer,  indeed.  The  circumstances  may  have  been 
Charlie's  undoing,  but  it  is  a  little  difficult  to  see  why  the 
circumstances  did  not  do  the  same  for  Sally,  and  she  was 
not  undone  yet.  No,  I  am  forced  to  the  conclusion,  that,  in 
Charlie's  case,  circumstances  could  not  be  held  responsible 
for  anything  more  than  hurrying  things  up  a  little. 

As  I  said,  Charlie  was  very  young.  He  had  passed  his 
finals  with  flying  colors  in  the  preceding  June,  nearly  two 


CONCERNING  SALLY  249 

months  before  his  seventeenth  birthday,  and  he  was  but 
just  seventeen  when  he  began  his  college  career.  What 
ever  may  be  said,  seventeen  is  too  young  for  a  boy  to  enter 
college  and  to  be  given  the  large  liberties  which  a  boy  —  a 
college  "man"  —  has  in  any  of  our  large  colleges.  Eighteen 
or  nineteen  is  a  much  safer  age,  especially  for  a  boy  like 
Charlie  Ladue.  The  faults  which  I  have  mentioned  soon 
disgusted  and  repelled  the  most  desirable  elements  in  college 
and  left  him  with — not  one  of — the  least  desirable.  Even 
with  them  he  was  only  tolerated,  never  liked,  and  they  got  out 
of  him  what  they  could.  With  them  there  was  no  incentive 
to  study,  which  was  a  pity,  for  Charlie  did  very  well  with 
a  surprisingly  small  amount  of  work,  and  would  have  done 
exceedingly  well  with  a  little  more,  but  he  needed  compul 
sion  in  some  form.  As  it  was,  he  very  soon  got  to  doing  just 
enough  to  keep  himself  afloat.  He  could  study  hard  when 
he  had  to,  and  he  did. 

Patty  had  got  to  work,  at  last,  upon  the  repairs  to  her 
house.  It  was  October  before  she  made  up  her  mind  and  well 
into  November  before  work  began;  and  builders  are  awful 
deliberate,  as  Miss  Lambkin  had  remarked.  As  the  work 
went  on,  the  time  when  the  house  would  be  ready  retreated 
gradually  into  the  future.  But  Miss  Patty  consoled  herself 
with  the  thought  that  Charlie  would  not  be  able  to  help  her 
occupy  it  before  the  next  summer  anyway.  Although  she 
had  insisted  that  Mrs.  Ladue  and  Sally  should  live  there 
as  soon  as  it  was  ready,  —  it  was  a  question  of  pride  with 
Miss  Patty,  not  a  question  of  her  wish  in  the  matter,  —  and 
although  she  was  expecting  them  to  live  there,  it  was  by 
no  means  sure  that  Sally  would  consent  to  come.  Miss 
Patty  did  not  trouble  herself  greatly  about  that.  But  the 
thought  that  Charlie  might  not  would  have  filled  her  with 
consternation.  She  was  looking  forward  to  the  Christmas 
recess,  and  to  having  Charlie  with  her  for  two  weeks,  at 
least. 

But  when  the  Christmas  recess  arrived  and  work  was  over, 
Charlie,  feeling  much  relieved,  sat  down  to  a  quiet  evening 


250  CONCERNING  SALLY 

with  four  congenial  spirits  who  also  felt  much  relieved  and 
who  wished  to  celebrate  their  temporary  freedom  in  the 
only  way  they  knew.  I  was  wrong  in  calling  it  the  only  way. 
It  was  one  of  the  few  ways  they  knew  in  which  to  celebrate 
anything.  When  Charlie  rose  from  the  table,  about  mid 
night,  he  felt  rather  desperate,  for  he  had  lost  heavily.  He 
could  not  afford  to  lose  heavily. 

One  of  the  congenial  spirits  saw  the  look  upon  his  face  and 
laughed.  "Don't  you  care,  Ladue,"  he  cried.  "All  is  not 
lost.  You  needn't  commit  suicide  yet.  We'll  stake  you. 
Have  n't  you  got  a  dollar  left?" 

Charlie  forced  a  sickly  smile,  which  disappeared  the  in 
stant  he  ceased  to  force  it.  He  pulled  out  the  contents  of  his 
pockets.  "I've  got,"  he  answered,  counting  soberly,  "just 
fifty-four  cents  in  cash.  They'll  expect  me  home  to-night 
—  they  expected  me  last  night,"  he  corrected  himself,  "I 
can't  go,  for  I  have  n't  got  the  price  of  a  ticket.  And  I  've 
given  you  fellows  my  I  O  U's,"  he  went  on,  looking  up  with 
an  attempt  to  face  it  out,  —  a  pitiful  attempt,  —  "for  — 
how  much,  Ned?" 

"Two  hundred  for  mine,"  Ned  replied,  spreading  Char 
lie's  poor  little  notes  on  the  table.  "Anybody  else  got  'em?" 
He  looked  around,  but  the  others  shook  their  heads.  "It 
seems  to  be  up  to  me  to  lend  you,  Ladue."  Carelessly,  he 
tossed  a  ten-dollar  bill  across  the  table.  "Go  home  on  that 
and  see  if  you  can't  work  the  house  for  three  hundred  or  so 
and  take  these  up.  Don't  thank  me."  Charlie  had  taken  the 
bill  and  begun  to  speak.  "I'm  doing  it  for  cash,  not  senti 
ment.  What  do  you  suppose  these  I  O  U's  are  worth  if  you 
can't  work  somebody  for  the  money?  " 

Charlie,  reduced  to  silence,  pocketed  the  bill. 

"  I  've  a  notion,"  Ned  continued,  "that  I  '11  go  to  town  and 
look  in  at  number  seven.  Luck 's  with  me  to-night.  May  do 
something  there.  Who  goes  with  me?  " 

The  others  professed  the  intention  of  going  to  bed. 

"You  know,  don't  you,"  Ned  threw  out  as  an  inducement, 
"that  some  man  back  in  the  nineties  paid  his  way  through 


CONCERNING  SALLY  251 

college  on  number  seven?  Made  an  average  of  three  thou 
sand  a  year." 

"What's  that  story?"  Charlie  asked.  "I  have  n't  heard 
it." 

Ned  enlightened  him.  "It's  nothing  much,"  he  said 
carelessly,  "only  that  some  man  —  it  may  have  been  Jones 
or  Smith  —  in  the  class  of  ninety-something,  used  to  go  in 
to  number  seven  regularly,  two  or  three  times  a  week  all 
through  his  four  years  here,  and  he  made  an  average  of  three 
thousand  a  year.  Broke  the  bank  twice." 

Charlie  was  wide-eyed  with  amazement.  "Why,"  he 
began,  "if  he  could  do  that,  I  don't  see  why  — " 

Ned  laughed.  "They  have,"  he  said.  "Don't  you  run 
away  with  the  idea  that  number  seven  has  n't  made  a  profit 
out  of  Davis  or  Jones  or  whatever  his  name  was.  They  ad 
vertise  it  all  right.  That  story  has  brought  them  in  a  great 
deal  more  than  three  thousand  a  year.  But  this  man  had  a 
system;  a  very  simple  one,  and  a  very  good  one." 

"What  was  it?"  Charlie  asked.    "Can  you  tell  me?" 

"  Certainly  I  can,"  Ned  answered,  smiling.  "He  had  a  cool 
head  and  he  knew  when  to  stop.  And  there  is  n't  one  in 
three  thousand  that  knows  when  to  stop,  if  they've  got  the 
bug." 

"I  don't  see,"  Charlie  remarked  loftily,  "why  anybody 
would  n't  know  when  to  stop." 

"Well,  they  don't,  kid,"  Ned  replied  sharply. 

Charlie  was  silent  for  a  while,  digesting  the  information 
he  had  acquired.  Ned  got  up  to  go. 

"Will —  will  you  take  me,  Ned?"  Charlie  asked  hesi 
tatingly. 

Ned  looked  him  over  scornfully.  The  idea  did  not  appeal 
to  him.  "You  don't  want  to  go,  Ladue,"  he  said  pityingly. 
At  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  did  not  wish  to  be  responsi 
ble  in  the  remotest  degree  for  Charlie's  career.  It  did  not 
need  a  seer  to  guess  at  Charlie's  weakness.  "Number 
seven  is  no  place  for  you  and  I  'd  advise  you  to  keep  out  of 
it.  It's  a  regular  game,  there;  a  man's  game.  They'd  skin 


252  CONCERNING  SALLY 

you  alive  without  a  quiver.  They  won't  take  any  of  your 
pieces  of  paper  and  they  won't  give  you  back  any  ten  dollars, 
either.  I  would  n't  advise  you  to  go  there,  kid." 

That  "kid"  settled  it,  if  there  was  anything  needed  to 
settle  what  may  have  been  ordained  from  his  birth.  At  any 
rate,  it  was  ordained  that  he  should  not  overcome  the 
inclination  to  that  particular  sin  of  his  father  without  a 
struggle,  and  if  there  was  one  special  thing  which  Charlie 
was  not  fitted  to  do  it  was  to  struggle  in  such  a  cause.  He 
flushed. 

"Only  to  look  on,"  he  pleaded.  "It  was  just  to  look  on 
that  I  wanted  to  go.  I  did  n't  mean  to  play,  of  course." 

"No,  of  course  not.  They  never  do,"  Ned  retorted  cyni 
cally.  Then  he  considered  briefly,  looking  at  Charlie  the 
while  with  a  certain  disgust.  Having  given  him'advice  which 
was  certainly  good,  he  had  no  further  responsibility  in  the 
matter.  "All  right,"  he  said.  "  If  you  're  bound  to  go,  I  can 
get  you  by  the  nigger  at  the  door,  although  he'd  probably 
let  you  in  anyway.  You're  a  very  promising  subject." 

So  it  happened  that  Patty  waited  in  vain  for  Charlie.  For 
a  day  she  thought  only  that  he  must  have  been  delayed  — 
he  was  —  and  that,  perhaps,  he  was  staying  in  Cambridge 
to  finish  something  in  connection  with  his  studies.  She  did 
not  get  so  far  as  to  try  to  imagine  what  it  was,  but  she  won 
dered  and  felt  some  resentment  against  the  college  authori 
ties  for  keeping  such  a  good  boy  as  Charlie.  On  the  second 
day  she  began  to  wonder  if  he  could  have  gone  to  Mrs. 
Stump's  to  see  his  mother.  She  gave  that  question  mature 
consideration  and  decided  that  he  had.  On  the  third  day 
she  was  anxious  about  him  and  would  have  liked  to  go  to 
Mrs.  Ladue  or  to  Sally  and  find  out,  but  she  did  not  like  to 
do  that.  And  on  the  morning  of  the  next  day  Sally  saved 
her  the  trouble  by  coming  to  ask  about  him. 

Patty  was  too  much  frightened  to  remember  her  griev 
ance  against  Sally.  "Why,  Sally,"  she  said  in  a  voice  that 
trembled  and  with  her  hand  on  her  heart,  which  had  seemed 
to  stop  its  beating  for  a  moment,"  I  thought  he  was  with  you." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  253 

Sally  shook  her  head.   "We  thought  he  must  be  here." 

"He  has  n't  been  here,"  wailed  poor  Patty.  "What  can 
be  keeping  him?  Oh,  do  you  suppose  anything  has  hap 
pened  to  him?" 

Sally's  lip  curled  almost  imperceptibly  and  the  look  in 
her  eyes  was  hard. 

"I  don't  know,  Patty,  any  more  than  you  do." 

"But  I  don't  know  anything,"  Patty  cried.  Sally  gave  a 
little  laugh  in  spite  of  herself.  "What  shall  we  do?  Oh, 
what  shall  we  do,  Sally?" 

Sally  thought  for  an  instant,  and  then  she  turned  to  Patty. 
"I  will  take  the  noon  train  up." 

"Oh,  Sally!"  It  was  a  cry  of  relief.  "Could  n't  you  tele 
graph  first?  And  could  n't  you  ask  Doctor  Beatty  to  go, 
instead,  or  Doctor  Sanderson?" 

"  I  could  ask  Doctor  Beatty  to  go,  but  I  don't  intend  to," 
she  said  finally,  "and  Fox  is  not  here.  His  hospital  isn't 
ready  yet,  you  know.  They  could  n't  get  him  any  more 
easily  than  I  can.  And  as  to  telegraphing,  I  don't  think  that 
would  help." 

"Well,"  said  Patty  doubtfully,  "I  don't  — do  you  think 
you  ought  to  go  alone?" 

Sally  turned  and  looked  at  her.    "Why  not?" 

Before  the  gray  eyes  Patty's  eyes  fell.  "I  —  I  don't 
know,  exactly.  But  it  hardly  seems  quite  —  quite  proper  for 
a  girl  to  go  alone  to  —  to  a  college  room." 

Sally  chuckled.  "I  must  risk  it,"  she  said.  "I  think  I 
can.  And  if  Charlie  is  in  any  trouble  I  '11  do  my  best  to  get 
him  out  of  it." 

"Oh,  Sally!"   It  was  not  a  cry  of  relief. 

Sally  paid  no  attention  to  that  cry  of  Patty's.  "  I  must 
go  back  to  get  ready,"  she  said.  "  I  have  n't  any  too  much 
time." 

But  Sally  did  not  take  the  noon  train  up.  Just  as  she  was 
leaving  Mrs.  Stump's,  she  met  Charlie  coming  in.  He  looked 
rather  seedy  and  quite  forlorn. 


CHAPTER  XI 

WHEN  Charlie  went  back,  he  was  feeling  rather  elated, 
for  he  had  two  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  his 
pocket.  That  was  all  the  cash  Patty  could  raise 
without  making  an  appeal  to  Dick  Torrington  or  making 
some  other  arrangement  which  would  have  betrayed  her, 
and  that  would  not  have  done.  It  would  not  have  done  at 
all.  Sally  might  have  heard  of  it,  and  Patty,  to  tell  the  truth, 
was  afraid  of  Sally.  Sally  was  so  —  so  decided,  you  know, 
and  so  downright,  and  she  could  be  so  hard  about  anything 
that  concerned  Charlie.  Sally  was  not  fair  to  Charlie  —  the 
dear  boy!  What  if  he  was  a  little  extravagant?  All  young 
men  must  have  their  fling.  So  Patty,  with  but  the  vaguest 
ideas  of  what  the  fling  was,  —  she  could  think  only  of  fire 
works  and  yelling,  although  three  hundred  dollars  will  buy  a 
great  deal  of  fireworks  and  yelling  is  cheap,  —  Patty,  I  say, 
feeling  very  low  in  pocket  and  in  spirits,  bade  Charlie  an 
affectionate  farewell  and  returned  to  Miss  Miller's.  She  spent 
the  afternoon  in  casting  up  her  accounts  and  in  biting  the 
end  of  her  pencil;  occupations  from  which  she  derived  but 
little  satisfaction.  She  could  not  seem  to  make  the  accounts 
come  out  right  and  the  end  of  a  pencil,  even  the  best,  be 
comes  a  little  cloying  to  the  taste  in  time. 

Charlie's  parting  injunction  had  been  really  unnecessary. 
"Don't  tell  Sally,  will  you,  Patty?"  he  had  said  in  a  voice 
from  which  he  tried  in  vain  to  keep  the  note  of  exultation. 
There  was  little  danger  of  that.  Patty  was  as  anxious  as 
Charlie  was  to  keep  all  knowledge  of  the  transaction  from 
Sally.  And  Patty  sighed  and  cast  up  her  accounts  all  over 
again.  There  was  no  escape  from  it.  She  must  look  the  mat 
ter  in  the  face.  The  absence  of  that  two  hundred  and  fifty 
would  make  a  great  difference  to  her;  it  would  leave  her 


CONCERNING  SALLY  255 

absolutely  without  ready  money  for  more  than  a  month,  or 
—  or,  perhaps,  —  and  she  stared  out  of  the  window  with 
unseeing  eyes  —  she  could  manage  to  borrow  —  or  ask  Miss 
Miller  to  trust  her  —  or  somebody  —  But  that  would  not 
make  up  half  and  everybody  would  know  about  it ;  and  she 
sighed  again  and  put  down  the  remains  of  the  pencil  with 
its  chewed  end  and  put  the  paper  into  her  waste-basket.  She 
had  given  it  up.  She  would  trust  to  luck.  She  never  was  any 
good  at  arithmetic  anyway. 

What  specious  arguments  Charlie  had  used  to  persuade 
her  I  do  not  know.  It  does  not  matter  and  she  probably  did 
not  give  them  much  attention.  Charlie  wanted  the  money. 
That  was  the  point  with  her  as  it  was  the  point  with 
him.  What  were  arguments  and  explanations?  Mere  words. 
But  she  noted  that  his  watch  was  gone.  Patty,  herself,  had 
given  it  to  him  only  the  year  before.  She  could  not  help 
asking  about  that,  in  a  somewhat  hesitating  and  apologetic 
way. 

Charlie  set  her  doubts  at  rest  at  once.  "Oh,  that?"  he 
said  carelessly.  "  It  needed  cleaning  and  I  left  it."  He  gave 
the  same  answer  to  Sally  when  she  asked  about  it. 

"Huh!"  was  Sally's  only  answer,  as  she  turned  away. 

Charlie  had  not  said  anything  in  reply,  although  that 
monosyllable  of  Sally's,  which  expressed  much,  had  made 
him  angry  enough  to  say  almost  anything,  if  only  he  knew 
what  to  say.  He  did  n't ;  and  the  very  fact  that  he  did  n't 
made  him  angrier  than  ever.  He  stammered  and  stuttered 
and  finished  by  clearing  his  throat,  at  which  performance 
Sally  smiled  heartlessly. 

Charlie  had  been  badly  shaken  and  had  not  had  time  to 
recover.  But  neither  Sally  nor  Patty  had  an  idea  of  what 
Charlie  had  been  through.  It  was  just  as  well  that  they 
had  not;  just  as  well  for  Charlie's  comfort  and  for  Patty's. 
Sally  had  more  imagination  than  Patty  had  and  she  had  had 
more  experience.  She  could  picture  to  herself  any  number 
of  scrapes  that  Charlie  might  have  got  himself  into  and 
they  did  not  consist  solely  of  fireworks  and  yelling.  They 


256  CONCERNING  SALLY 

were  much  nearer  the  truth  than  that  vague  image  of  Patty's, 
and  if  Sally  did  not  hit  upon  the  exact  situation  it  is  to  be 
remembered  that  she  did  not  know  about  the  money  which 
Charlie  had  succeeded  in  extracting  from  Patty. 

But  Sally's  imaginings  were  bad  enough.  They  were  suf 
ficient  to  account  for  her  heavy  heart,  although  they  were 
not  necessary  to  account  for  it.  Sally  usually  had  a  heavy 
heart  now,  which  was  a  great  pity  and  not  necessary  either. 
What  had  come  over  her?  It  troubled  her  mother  to  see  her 
so  depressed.  She  may  have  attributed  it  to  the  wrong 
cause  or  she  may  not.  Mothers  are  very  apt  to  be  right  about 
such  matters.  Her  anxious  eyes  followed  Sally  about.  Finally 
she  could  not  refrain  from  speaking. 

"Sally,  dear,"  she  asked,  "what  is  the  matter?" 

Sally  smiled  a  pitiful  little  smile.  "Why,  I  don't  know, 
mother.  Is  anything  the  matter?" 

"Something  must  be.  A  girl  like  you  does  n't  get  so  low- 
spirited  for  nothing.  It  has  been  going  on  for  nearly  a  year 
now.  What  is  it,  Sally?  Can't  you  tell  me,  dear?" 

"  I  wish  I  could,  mother.  I  wish  I  knew.  If  I  knew,  I  would 
tell  you.  I  don't.  I  only  know  that  nothing  seems  to  be 
worth  while  and  that  I  can't  care  about  anything.  A  pity, 
is  n't  it?  "  And  Sally  smiled  again. 

"Sally,  don't!  If  you  smile  like  that  again  you  will  make 
me  cry." 

"  I  won't  make  you  cry,  mother.  It  is  no  trouble  for  me  to 
keep  from  smiling." 

"Are  you  —  are  n't  you  well,  Sally?" 

Sally  stretched  her  arms  above  her  head.  She  was  get 
ting  to  be  rather  a  magnificent  woman.  "I  can't  raise  a 
single  symptom,"  she  said.  "I'm  absolutely  well,  I  think. 
You  might  get  Doctor  Beatty  to  prod  me  and  see  if  he  can 
find  anything  wrong." 

"I  would  rather  have  Fox." 

Sally  flushed  very  faintly.  "Not  Fox,  mother.  I  did  n't 
mean  it,  really.  I  'm  sure  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with 
my  health.  I  could  give  you  a  catalogue:  appetite  good 


CONCERNING  SALLY  257 

—  fairly  good,  I  sleep  well,  I  —  I  can't  think  of  anything 
else."  ' 

"Mind?"  her  mother  asked,  smiling. 

"A  blank,"  said  Sally  promptly,  with  a  hint  of  her  old 
brightness.  "My  mind  is  an  absolute  blank.  So  there  you 
are  where  you  started." 

" Is  it  your  teaching,  dear?  Are  you  too  tired?" 

"Do  I  look  as  if  I  ought  to  be  tired?"  .Sally  returned 
scornfully.  She  did  not  look  so,  certainly.  She  was  taller 
than  her  mother  and  long-limbed  and  lean,  and  she  looked 
fit  to  run  races  or  climb  trees  or  to  do  anything  else  that 
required  suppleness  and  quickness  and  to  do  it  exceedingly 
well.  "  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself  and  I  am,  but  I  feel 
as  if  I  could  murder  those  children  and  do  it  cheerfully; 
without  a  single  pang.  It  makes  me  wonder  whether  I  am 
fitted  to  teach,  after  all." 

"Oh,  Sally!" 

Sally  made  no  reply,  but  sat  down  on  the  bed  and  gazed 
out  of  the  window  at  nothing  in  particular.  To  be  sure,  she 
could  not  have  seen  anything  worth  while:  only  the  side  of 
the  next  house,  not  fifty  feet  away,  and  the  window  of  a  bed 
room.  She  could  have  seen  into  the  room,  if  she  had  been 
at  all  curious,  and  have  seen  the  chambermaid  moving 
about  there. 

Mrs.  Ladue  looked  at  her  daughter  sitting  there  so  apa 
thetically.  She  looked  long  and  her  eyes  grew  more  anxious 
than  ever.  Sally  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  the  scrutiny. 

"Sally,"  she  began  hesitatingly. 

Sally  turned  her  head.   "Well?" 

"I  have  heard  some  rumors,  Sally,"  Mrs.  Ladue  went 
on,  hesitating  more  than  ever,  "about  —  about  Everett.  I 
did  n't  believe  there  was  any  truth  in  them  and  I  have  said 
so.  I  was  right,  wasn't  I?  There  is  n't  anything,  is  there?" 

"What  sort  of  thing?  "  Sally  did  not  seem  to  care.  "What 
were  the  rumors,  mother?" 

"Why,"  said  her  mother,  with  a  little  laugh  of  embarrass 
ment,  "they  were  most  absurd;  that  Everett  was  paying 


258  CONCERNING  SALLY 

you  marked  attention  and  that  you  were  encouraging 
him." 

"No,  that  is  not  so.   I  have  not  encouraged  him." 

Her  answer  seemed  to  excite  Mrs.  Ladue.  "Well,  is  it 
true  that  he  is  —  that  he  has  been  paying  you  attention  for 
a  long  time?" 

"  I  have  seen  him  more  or  less,  but  it  is  nothing  that  I  have 
been  trying  to  conceal  from  you.  What  does  it  matter?" 

"It  matters  very  much,  dear;  oh,  very  much."  Mrs. 
Ladue  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "Then  I  gather,"  she  re 
sumed  in  a  low  voice,  "that  you  have  not  discouraged  his 
attentions?" 

"No,"  Sally  replied  listlessly,  "I  have  not  discouraged 
them.  Assuming  that  they  are  anything  more  than  accident, 
I  — what  do  I  care?  It  makes  no  difference  to  me." 

"Oh,  Sally!"  Tears  came  into  Mrs.  Ladue 's  eyes.  "You 
must  know  better  than  any  one  else  whether  he  means  any 
thing  or  not;  what  his  intentions  are." 

"He  may  not  have  any  intentions,"  Sally  answered.  "I 
don't  know  what  he  means  —  but  that  is  not  true ;  not 
strictly.  I  know  what  he  says,  but  not  what  he  thinks.  I 
don't  believe  there  is  anybody  who  knows  what  Everett 
thinks."  And  she  gave  a  little  laugh  which  was  almost  worse 
than  one  of  her  smiles.  "His  intentions,  assuming  that  he 
has  any,  are  well  enough." 

The  situation  seemed  to  be  worse  than  Mrs.  Ladue  had 
imagined  in  her  most  doubtful  moments.  "But,  Sally,"  she 
said  anxiously,  "is  there  —  oh,  I  hate  to  ask  you,  but  I 
must.  Is  there  any  kind  of  an  understanding  between  you 
and  Everett?" 

"Not  on  my  part,  mother,"  Sally  replied  rather  wearily. 
"Now  let's  talk  about  something  else." 

"Be  patient  with  my  questions  just  a  little  longer,"  said 
her  mother  gently.  "I  can't  drop  the  subject  there.  Has 
—  do  you  think  Everett  has  any  right  to  understand  any 
thing  that  you  don't?  Have  you  let  him  understand  any 
thing?" 


CONCERNING  SALLY  259 

Sally  did  not  answer  for  what  seemed  to  her  mother  a 
long  time.  "  I  don't  know,"  she  answered  at  last,  "what  he 
thinks.  To  be  perfectly  plain,  Everett  has  not  asked  me  to 
marry  him,  but  he  may  feel  sure  what  my  answer  would  be 
if  he  did  decide  to.  I  don't  know.  He  is  a  very  sure  kind  of 
a  person,  and  he  has  reason  to  be.  That  is  the  extent  of  the 
understanding,  as  you  call  it." 

"But,  surely,  you  know  what  your  answer  would  be,"  re 
monstrated  Mrs.  Ladue  in  a  low  voice.  "It  isn't  right, 
Sally,  to  let  him  think  one  thing  when  you  mean  to  do  the 
opposite.  I  hope,"  she  added,  struck  by  a  fresh  doubt  —  a 
most  uncomfortable  doubt,  "that  you  do  mean  to  do  the 
opposite.  There  can  be  no  question  about  that,  can  there?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Sally  replied  slowly,  "what  I  should  do. 
I  Ve  thought  about  it  and  I  don't  know." 

Mrs.  Ladue's  hand  went  up  to  her  heart  involuntarily, 
and  she  made  no  reply  for  some  time.  "  Drifting?  "  she  asked 
at  last. 

Sally  looked  toward  her  mother  and  smiled.  "Drifting, 
I  suppose.  It's  much  the  easiest." 

Mrs.  Ladue's  hand  was  still  at  her  heart,  which  was  beat 
ing  somewhat  tumultuously. 

"Don't,  Sally!  Don't,  I  beg  of  you.  Your  whole  life's 
happiness  depends  upon  it.  Remember  your  father.  Ever 
ett's  principles  are  no  better  than  his,  I  feel  sure.  You  have 
been  so  —  so  sturdy,  Sally.  Don't  spoil  your  life  now.  You 
will  find  your  happiness."  She  was  on  the  verge  of  telling 
her,  but  she  checked  herself  in  time.  That  was  Fox's  business. 
He  might  be  right,  after  all.  "This  mood  of  yours  will  pass, 
and  then  you  would  wear  your  life  out  in  regrets.  Say  that 
you  won't  do  anything  rash,  Sally." 

"Don't  worry,  mother.  It  really  does  n't  matter,  but  I 
won't  do  anything  rash.  There!"  She  laughed  and  kissed 
her  mother.  "I  hope  that  satisfies  you.  You  were  getting 
quite  excited." 

Mrs.  Ladue  had  been  rather  excited,  as  Sally  said.  Now 
she  was  crying  softly. 


260  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"You  don't  know  what  this  means  to  me,  Sally,  and  I 
can't  tell  you.  I  wish  —  oh,  I  wish  that  I  had  your  chance! 
You  may  be  sure  that  I  would  n't  throw  it  away.  You  may 
be  sure  I  would  n't."  She  wiped  her  eyes  and  smiled  up  at 
Sally.  "There!  Now  I  am  all  right  and  very  much  ashamed 
of  myself.  Run  along  out,  dear  girl.  You  don't  get  enough 
of  out-of-doors,  Sally." 

So  Sally  went  out.  She  meant  to  make  the  most  of  what 
was  left  of  the  short  winter  afternoon.  She  hesitated  for  a 
moment  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  " It's  Fisherman's  Cove," 
she  said  then  quite  cheerfully.  "And  I  don't  care  when  it 
gets  dark  or  anything." 


CHAPTER  XII 

FISHERMAN'S  COVE  was  a  long  way  from  Mrs.  Stump's 
boarding-house,  but  that  fact  gave  Sally  no  concern. 
And  Fisherman's  Cove  was  much  changed  from  the 
Cove  that  Uncle  John  used  to  tell  her  about,  where  he  had 
been  used  to  go  to  see  the  men  haul  the  seines.    Its  waters 
had  been  fouled  by  the  outpourings  of  a  sewer,  and  the  fish 
had  deserted  them  years  before;  but  that  would  not  make 
the  ice  any  the  less  attractive  with  a  young  moon  shining 
upon  it. 

And  the  way  to  Fisherman's  Cove  was  not  the  way  that 
Uncle  John  had  been  in  the  habit  of  taking.  His  way,  fifty 
years  before,  had  led  him  out  upon  a  quiet  country  road 
until  he  came  to  a  little  lane  that  led  down,  between  high 
growths  of  bushes,  to  a  little  farmhouse.  The  farmhouse 
had  overlooked  the  Cove.  Sally  could  not  go  through  the 
little  lane  to  the  little  old  farmhouse,  because  the  farmhouse 
was  not  there  now,  and  because  there  was  a  horrible  fence 
of  new  boards  right  across  the  lane.  They  had  been  building 
mills  on  the  shores  of  Fisherman's  Cove  for  thirty  years ;  and 
the  ice  ponds  on  which  the  boys  and  girls  of  thirty  years 
before  used  to  skate  —  Miss  Patty  had  skated  there,  often 
—  were  no  longer  ice  ponds,  but  thriving  mill  villages,  with 
their  long  rows  of  brilliantly  lighted  windows  and  their  neat 
tenements,  the  later  ones  of  three  stories,  each  story  hav 
ing  its  neat  clothes-porch.  If  you  don't  know  what  a  clothes- 
porch  is,  just  go  down  there  and  see  for  yourself.  And  these 
neat  tenements  of  three  stories  each  sheltered  I  don't  know 
how  many  families  of  Portuguese  mill-workers,  who  may 
have  been  neat,  but  who  probably  were  not.  Thriving! 
Ugh !  as  Miss  Patty  invariably  said,  turning  her  head  away. 
She  did  not  have  to  go  that  way  often,  but  when  she  did 


262  CONCERNING  SALLY 

have  to  she  preferred  to  shut  her  eyes  until  her  horse  had 
taken  her  past  it  all. 

Besides,  Mrs.  Stump's  was  not  on  Apple  Tree  Street,  but 
in  a  much  less  fashionable  neighborhood ;  one  which  had  been 
fashionable  some  seventy  or  eighty  years  before.  As  fash 
ion  left  that  street  and  moved  upon  the  ridge,  the  fine  old 
houses  —  for  they  were  fine  old  houses,  even  there  —  gradu 
ally  fell  in  their  estate.  The  way  from  Mrs.  Stump's  to 
Fisherman's  Cove  did  not  lie  by  that  thriving  mill  village 
which  has  been  mentioned,  but  by  other  thriving  mill  vil 
lages,  with  their  tenements  which,  being  older,  were  pre 
sumably  not  so  neat.  There  was  little  to  choose  between 
the  ways.  Either  was  disagreeable  enough,  especially  at 
any  time  when  the  hands  were  in  the  street,  and  no  girl  would 
have  chosen  such  a  time  to  walk  upon  that  road.  Even  Sally 
would  have  avoided  it;  but  the  mill-hands  were  now  shut 
up  in  their  mills  and  working  merrily  or  otherwise,  and  she 
did  not  give  the  matter  a  thought. 

As  she  started  upon  her  road,  a  man  who  had  been  lean 
ing  negligently  upon  a  post  at  the  next  corner,  bestirred 
himself,  unleaned,  and  came  toward  her.  Sally  glanced  up 
at  him  and  stopped.  "Oh,  dear!"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of 
comical  dismay.  "Oh,  dear!  And  I  promised  mother  that 
I  would  n't  do  anything  rash." 

The  man  continued  to  come  toward  her.  He  had  a  lei 
surely  air  of  certainty  which  ordinarily  would  have  antago 
nized  Sally  at  once. 

"Well,  Sally?"  he  said  questioningly,  when  he  was  near 
enough  to  be  heard  without  raising  his  voice. 

"Well,  Everett,"  Sally  returned,  with  some  sharpness. 
"I  should  really  like  to  know  what  you  were  doing  on  that 
corner." 

"Doing?"  he  asked  in  surprise.  "Why,  nothing  at  all. 
I  was  only  waiting  for  you." 

"And  why,"  she  said,  with  more  sharpness  than  before, 
"if  you  were  waiting  for  me,  did  n't  you  come  to  the  house 
and  wait  there?" 


CONCERNING  SALLY  263 

"I  don't  like  to  go  to  boarding-houses  and  wait,"  he  re 
plied,  smiling.  "  I  have  a  prejudice  against  boarding-houses, 
although  I  have  no  doubt  that  Mrs.  Stump's  is  an  excellent 
house.  And  my  going  there  might  excite  some  comment." 

"Is  it  your  idea,"  Sally  retorted  quickly,  "that  your 
waiting  on  the  next  corner  will  not  excite  comment?  There 
has  been  too  much  comment  already." 

"Well,  Sally,  what  if  there  has  been  a  certain  amount 
of  it?  We  don't  care,  do  we?" 

"I  am  not  sure  that  we  don't,"  she  answered  slowly, 
looking  him  in  the  face  thoughtfully.  "I  am  not  sure.  In 
fact,  I  think  we  do." 

He  flushed  a  little  under  her  direct  gaze.  That  subject 
was  not  to  be  pursued. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  going  for  a  walk,"  she  replied;  "for  a  long  walk. 
And  I—" 

"Then  you'd  better  ride,"  he  said  quickly,  interrupting 
her.  "  I  can  get  Sawny  in  five  minutes.  Where  will  you  be?  " 

"No,"  Sally  spoke  earnestly.  "Don't.  I'd  rather  not. 
I  prefer  to  walk.  And,  Everett,  I  'd  rather  you  would  n't 
go  with  me.  I  want  to  take  this  walk  alone." 

Everett  was  surprised.  It  was  rather  a  shock  to  find  that 
he  was  n't  wanted. 

"Oh,"  he  said  coldly.  "Very  well.  I  hope  you  will  have 
a  most  pleasant  walk  to  —  wherever  you  are  going." 

Sally's  heart  was  too  tender.  Everett  seemed  hurt,  and 
she  did  n't  like  to  feel  that  she  had  hurt  him.  "  I  am  going 
to  Fisherman's  Cove,"  she  said. 

"Fisherman's  Cove!  But  you  know  that  will  take  you 
through  the  heart  of  milltown." 

"Yes,  but  the  mills  are  n't  out.    I '11  come  back  early." 

"It's  not  a  way  for  a  girl  to  choose." 

Sally  smiled.    "  I  '11  be  all  right,  I  think.' 

Everett  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You'd  much  better 
let  me  drive  you.  We  can  go  to  the  Cove  as  well  as  else 
where." 


264  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Sally  shook  her  head  gently. 

"As  you  please,"  he  said;  and  he  shrugged  again  and 
turned  away. 

Sally  looked  after  him  for  a  moment.  "Oh,  dear,"  she 
sighed.  "Now  I've  offended  him  —  mortally,  I  suppose. 
But  it  does  n't  matter.  I  was  forgetting.  Nothing  really 
matters."  It  did  n't  matter.  It  might  be  better  if  she  had 
offended  him  mortally  if  he  would  stay  offended. 

So  Sally  put  aside  all  thoughts  of  Everett  and  resumed 
her  walk.  She  had  no  great  difficulty  in  putting  aside  thoughts 
of  him.  I  do  not  know  what  her  thoughts  were,  as  she  walked 
on  towards  the  Cove,  but  it  is  safe  to  say  that  they  were  not 
of  Everett.  She  must  have  been  thinking  pretty  deeply  of 
something,  for  she  took  her  way  unconsciously  and  without 
seeing  where  she  was  going;  and  she  passed  the  few  people 
that  she  met  without  seeing  them  or  being  conscious  that 
they  were  there.  Walking  so,  like  one  asleep,  she  came  to 
the  end  of  that  street,  where  it  runs  into  River  Street. 

River  Street  is  a  dirty  street.  Its  best  friends  could  not 
say  more  for  it.  The  reason  is  not  far  to  seek;  and  a  part  of 
that  reason  is  that,  for  many  years  —  say  sixty  years  or  even 
seventy  —  it  has  served  for  a  residence  street  for  the  same 
class  of  people.  Residence  street  is  perhaps  rather  a  high- 
sounding  name  for  it.  You  may  use  any  other  words  that 
you  like  better,  for  River  Street,  from  the  point  where 
Sally  entered  it  to  within  a  half-dozen  blocks  of  the  centre 
of  the  town,  was,  for  long  years,  the  one  place  where  certain 
people  lived.  It  was  so  wholly  given  up  to  those  people  that 
it  was  known  as  Fayal ;  and  Fayal  had  a  reputation  which 
was  not  altogether  savory.  The  inhabitants  of  this  local 
Fayal  were,  in  the  old  days,  sailors,  and  sailors  of  the  rough 
est  sort;  with  crimps  and  sharks  and  women  of  several  kinds, 
and  an  occasional  overlord.  There  were  no  mills  to  speak  of, 
twenty-five  years  ago,  at  this  end  of  the  town.  When  the 
mills  began  to  come,  the  inhabitants  of  Fayal  —  at  least, 
some  of  them  —  sent  for  their  friends  from  the  islands, 
and  the  friends,  in  turn,  sent  for  their  families;  the  old  sailor 


CONCERNING  SALLY  265 

class,  the  rough  men  with  gold  hoops  in  their  ears,  gradually 
died  off  and  the  reputation  of  River  Street  improved.  Like 
the  street  itself,  it  is  not  yet  altogether  savory. 

At  River  Street,  Sally  began  to  find  herself  among  the 
tenements,  for  Fayal  had  lain  in  the  other  direction  and  the 
old  River  Street  had  faded  out,  right  here,  into  the  remains 
of  a  country  road  which  ended  at  the  beach,  not  half  a  mile 
beyond.  There  was  no  country  road  now,  and  the  less  said 
about  this  particular  part  of  the  beach  the  better. 

Sally  paused  for  an  instant  and  looked  about  her.  From 
this  point  on,  River  Street  was  a  continuous  row  of  tene 
ments,  very  neat  and  tidy  tenements,  no  doubt,  at  a  dis 
tance.  There  was  no  gleam  in  that  same  distance  which 
betokened  the  Cove,  only  the  neat  and  tidy  tenements,  hor 
ribly  neat  and  tidy.  Sally  felt  a  sinking  of  the  heart  or  some 
where  about  that  region,  although  I  believe  it  is  not  the 
heart  that  sinks. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  exclaimed,  under  her  breath.  "I  had 
forgotten  that  it  was  so  forlorn.  I  will  hurry  through  it.  I 
wish  I  could  shut  my  eyes,  as  Patty  does,  but  I  suppose  I 
shall  need  to  see." 

So  she  hurried  along,  past  the  rows  of  tenements,  past  the 
few  women  that  she  met  and  past  the  small  children  playing 
in  the  street.  The  women  paid  no  attention  to  her,  being  in 
tent  upon  their  own  business  and  having  enough  of  it  to 
keep  them  well  occupied.  She  passed  a  mill,  with  its  throb 
bing  of  looms  and  its  clattering  and  clicking  of  spindles. 
The  long  rows  of  windows  were  just  beginning  to  be  lighted 
as  she  passed.  She  went  on,  past  more  tenements,  less  closely 
set,  and  past  another  mill.  The  windows  of  this  second  mill 
were  already  lighted,  and  the  same  throbbing  and  clattering 
came  faintly  to  her  ears.  In  front  of  this  mill  was  a  broad 
street,  almost  a  square,  and  beyond  the  street  an  open  lot, 
—  I  had  almost  said  a  field,  but  it  lacked  one  essential  to 
being  a  field,  —  evidently  used  by  the  population,  old  and 
young,  as  a  playground.  This  lot  was  surrounded  by  the 
remains  of  an  old  stone  wall,  a  relic  of  the  better  days,  when 


266  CONCERNING  SALLY 

it  had  been  a  field.  Now,  there  was  no  vestige  of  vegetation ; 
no  living  thing.  A  pig  would  have  died  of  starvation  in  that 
lot.  Both  street  and  lot  were  covered  with  frozen  mud  and 
dirty  snow,  and  a  film  of  repulsive  dirt,  that  would  not  wash 
off,  coated  the  old  stones  of  the  wall.  The  whole  place  filled 
Sally  with  disgust.  If  these  mills  had  to  be  somewhere,  why 
must  they  put  them  here?  Why  must  they?  Were  n't  there 
other  places,  without  robbing  — 

Sally  broke  off.  She  had  been  almost  talking  aloud  to 
herself  in  fierce  rebellion.  Mills!  Mills!  Nothing  but  mills! 
They  had  taken  up  every  foot  of  the  shore  in  Whitby  except 
what  was  occupied  by  the  wharves.  What  were  the  people 
thinking  of,  that  they  suffered  it?  They  had  seen  foot  after 
foot,  mile  after  mile,  of  shore  given  to  the  mills,  and  not  a 
single  feeble  voice  had  been  raised  to  prevent.  They  had 
seen  the  mills  stretch  forth  surreptitious,  grasping  hands  and 
take  unto  themselves  pieces  of  their  beautiful  old  shore  road, 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  at  a  time.  That  road  had  been  unequaled 
for  beauty,  thirty  years  before.  Sally  had  heard  Patty 
speak  of  it  often,  mourning  its  loss.  She,  herself,  had  seen 
great  stretches  of  that  shore  taken  by  the  mills  within  the 
past  ten  years,  and  she  had  not  known  enough  to  speak  or 
even  to  care.  The  people  were  mill-mad — or  sleeping.  Well 
—  and  Sally  sighed  —  a  haughty  spirit  before  destruction ; 
just  before  it,  she  hoped.  A  thousand  times  rather  the  few 
hardened  sailor-men  in  their  place  than  that  horde  every 
where. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  Sally  was  getting  excited ;  and  it  is 
to  be  feared  that  she  was  not  truly  democratic.  Well,  she 
was  not  and  she  never  pretended  to  be.  What  of  it?  She 
never  pretended  to  be  what  she  was  not.  And  as  she  thought 
these  thoughts,  she  came  out  from  behind  the  third  mill  and 
gave  a  little  gasp  of  delight.  There  lay  Fisherman's  Cove, 
its  frozen  surface  saffron  and  blue  and  crimson;  and  the 
clouds  above  golden  and  saffron  and  crimson,  with  lavender 
and  purple  in  the  shadows.  The  sun  had  just  gone  down  be 
hind  another  mill  on  the  opposite  shore.  Sally  stumbled  on 


CONCERNING  SALLY  267 

—  she  did  n't  dare  take  her  eyes  off  that  —  but  she  stumbled 
on,  as  fast  as  she  could,  past  the  few  scattered  tenements 
which  lay  between  her  and  the  open  road,  and  she  sat  down  on 
a  great  stone  that  was  part  of  the  old  sea-wall.  For  at  this 
point  the  road  ran  close  to  the  waters  of  the  Cove,  and  the 
beach,  with  its  load  of  broken  ice,  was  at  her  feet.  And  she 
sighed  again  and  sat  there,  watching,  and  a  great  peace  fell 
upon  her  spirit  and  she  was  content. 

Sally  gazed,  first  at  the  sky  and  then  at  the  ice  of  the  Cove; 
and  the  golden  lights  upon  the  clouds  changed  to  saffron  and 
the  saffron  to  crimson  and  the  purple  deepened.  In  the  ice, 
the  green  which  had  lingered  in  places  changed  to  blue 
and  the  blue  to  indigo  and  the  saffron  and  crimson  darkened 
and  were  gone.  Ah!  This  was  worth  while.  Was  anything  else 
worth  while?  What  did  she  care,  sitting  there,  for  schools 
or  mills  or  anything,  indeed,  but  sitting  there  and  gazing? 
She  half  turned  and  looked  out  into  the  bay  where  sky  and 
water  meet.  She  could  not  tell  which  was  water  and  which 
was  sky,  for  both  had  become  a  dull  slate-blue.  She  looked 
again  at  the  Cove.  The  color  had  gone,  but  there  was  a 
faint  silvery  light  from  a  young  moon  which  hung  above 
the  mill  on  the  opposite  shore.  And  from  the  windows  of  the 
mill  shone  other  lights.  These  mills  were  rather  picturesque 
at  night  and  at  a  distance ;  they  were  rather  pretty  —  of  a 
kind.  Sally  did  not  care  for  that  kind.  The  greater  the 
distance,  the  more  picturesque  they  were.  Sally  laughed  to 
herself  at  the  thought.  Her  laugh  was  gay  enough  and  it 
would  have  done  her  mother's  heart  good  to  hear  it.  She 
was  content ;  so  content  that  she  took  no  heed  of  the  time,  but 
she  sat  there  until  the  young  moon  had  sunk,  in  its  turn,  al 
most  to  the  mill,  and  she  roused  herself  and  found  that  she 
was  cold,  which  was  not  strange.  And  it  was  too  late  for  a  girl 
to  be  going  past  the  mills ;  which  was  not  strange  either.  If 
she  was  going,  she  had  better  be  about  it.  So  she  got  up 
from  the  great  stone,  took  a  last  long  look  at  the  fast-darken 
ing  sky,  shivered  and  started  back,  at  a  good  pace,  along  the 
road. 


268  CONCERNING  SALLY 

She  passed  the  last  mill  and,  as  she  came  to  the  corner  of 
the  fence,  she  heard  the  roar  of  many  feet  coming  out. 
They  burst  through  the  doorway  and  she  heard  them  pat 
tering  on  the  frozen  mud  behind  her.  But  it  was  dark  and  she 
was  well  ahead. 

At  the  second  mill,  the  one  of  the  broad  square  and  the 
open  lot,  she  saw  the  crowd  of  mill-hands  pouring  out  of  the 
gate  as  she  approached.  The  crowd  swelled  and  overflowed 
the  sidewalk  and  then  the  street  and  poured  over  the  wall 
into  the  lot,  slowly,  like  some  huge  stream  of  molasses.  As 
Sally  continued  on  her  way,  she  met  this  human  stream 
coming  toward  her ;  but  it  divided  before  her  and  closed  be 
hind  her,  letting  her  through  slowly.  They  are  a  peaceable, 
law-abiding  set,  for  the  most  part,  but  the  mill  lays  its 
heavy  hand  upon  them.  The  older  ones  among  them 
went  stolidly  to  their  kennels;  but  a  few  of  the  mill-girls 
looked  after  Sally  and  made  quite  audible  remarks  about  her 
and  giggled  and  laughed  and  nudged  the  men.  And  the  men 
—  the  young  men  —  looked  back  at  her  and  thought  —  but 
I  don't  know  what  they  thought.  I  only  know  that  two  of 
them,  of  mixed  race,  turned  and  followed  on  after  her. 

Sally  was  not  aware  that  she  was  being  followed,  but  many 
of  the  mill-girls  were,  and  the  giggling  and  the  laughter  grew, 
until  Sally  turned  to  see  the  cause.  Having  seen,  she  did  not 
change  her  pace,  but  pursued  her  way  steadily  without 
again  looking  back  or  seeming  to  know  of  her  two  followers. 
The  crowd  ahead,  going  north,  and  the  crowd  behind  her, 
going  south,  were  well  separated  by  this  time,  and  there  was 
a  wide  space  between  them.  In  this  space  were  only  Sally 
and  the  two  men,  now  close  behind  her,  and  a  few  stragglers. 
In  this  way  they  went  on  for  some  distance,  while  the  crowd 
ahead  gradually  melted  away  into  the  tenements  on  either 
side ;  and  they  were  within  a  few  blocks  of  the  corner  where 
Sally  would  turn  off  of  River  Street.  The  street  was  not 
well  lighted  and  it  was  deserted. 

The  men  came  up,  one  on  either  side  of  Sally,  and  one 
of  them  said  something  to  her,  too  vile  to  be  recorded. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  269 

Sally  kept  her  eyes  straight  ahead  and  she  thought  rapidly. 
She  was  not  exactly  frightened,  but  she  was  thinking  what 
she  had  better  do.  It  would  do  little  good  to  scream.  The 
outcome  of  such  a  course  was  doubtful  and,  besides,  Sally 
was  not  the  kind  of  a  girl  who  screams  easily  or  at  all.  She 
meditated  fighting.  She  could  have  put  up  a  good  fight;  but 
there  were  two  of  the  men  and  they  would  have  been  pleased 
with  a  fight,  two  men  against  one  girl.  What  else  was  there 
for  her  to  do?  She  could  run,  and  she  could  run  well;  so 
well  that  there  was  an  even  chance,  perhaps,  that  she  could 
run  faster  and  last  longer  than  those  mill -trained  men. 
Eight  or  ten  years  of  the  mill  do  not  help  a  man's  lungs 
much  or  his  morals.  The  dust,  you  know,  —  it  seems  to 
get  into  their  morals  as  well  as  into  their  lungs.  If  only  she 
did  n't  have  skirts  to  bother  her ;  but  her  skirt  was  neither 
tight  nor  very  long. 

The  man  repeated  his  vile  speech ;  and  Sally  darted  away, 
gathering  her  skirts  as  she  ran. 

The  men  had  been  taken  by  surprise,  but  they  put  out 
after  her  as  fast  as  they  could,  laughing.  This  was  sport; 
and  although  laughter  is  not  recommended  for  runners,  they 
managed  to  gain  a  little  at  first.  After  that  first  burst,  they 
ceased  to  gain,  but  they  held  their  own,  and  the  chase  sped 
merrily  along  River  Street,  a  scant  five  yards  separating  the 
hunters  from  their  quarry.  Sally  reached  her  corner  and 
turned  off  of  River  Street,  passing  under  the  light  of  a  street 
lamp  as  she  made  the  turn.  Coming  down  that  street  was  a 
man.  Sally  did  not  see  very  well,  for  he  was  not  in  the  full 
light  and,  besides,  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears  because  of  her 
running.  But  the  man  gave  a  start  and  an  exclamation  and 
he  began  to  run  and  he  ran  into  those  men  like  a  locomotive, 
and  he  swung  at  one  of  them  and  hit  him  and  knocked  him 
into  the  middle  of  the  street,  so  that  he  landed  on  the  back 
of  his  neck  in  the  roadway  and  lay  limp  and  still.  The  other 
would  have  run  away,  but  the  man  caught  him  around  the 
neck  with  his  left  hand  and  cast  him  as  far  as  his  fellow, 
rolling  over  and  over. 


270  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Damn  you!"  he  cried  low.  "No,  you  don't.  Damn 
you!" 

Doubtless  he  was  forgiven  that  cry,  even  as  Sally  forgave 
it.  She  had  stopped  and  was  leaning  against  a  fence.  When 
she  saw  the  men  go  into  the  street,  one  after  the  other,  she 
gave  a  quick  chuckle  of  delight.  She  may  have  been  a  little 
hysterical.  It  would  not  have  been  strange. 

The  second  man  who  had  been  so  summarily  cast  into 
the  road  was  rising  slowly,  muttering  and  half  sobbing.  The 
first  man  continued  to  lie  limp  and  still,  and  the  man  who 
had  cast  him  there  advanced  slowly  toward  him ;  upon  which 
that  other  ceased  beating  the  dust  from  his  clothes  and 
edged  away,  muttering  more  loudly  threats  and  vitupera 
tions.  The  man  continued  to  advance,  but  he  raised  his 
head  into  the  full  light  from  the  street  lamp  and  he  laughed 
shortly. 

"You'd  better  be  off,"  he  said.  "Get  out,  and  hurry 
about  it." 

Sally  saw  his  face  well  enough  in  the  dim  light  and  she 
knew  the  voice.  She  had  not  really  needed  to  recognize 
either,  for  she  knew  well  enough,  in  her  heart,  who  it  was 
that  had  come  to  her  aid  in  the  nick  of  time.  She  chuckled 
again  with  delight,  then  drew  a  shivering  breath  and  gave  a 
sob.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it,  Sally  was  hysterical. 
She  knew  that  she  was  and  she  stifled  the  sob  in  her  throat. 
She  despised  hysterics.  And  she  laughed  a  little  because  she 
could  n't  help  it,  and  she  went  to  him. 

He  was  kneeling  in  the  road  and  he  had  the  man's  head 
upon  one  knee  and  was  feeling  him  gently.  He  raised  his 
head  as  she  came  near. 

"  I  can't  tell  whether  I  have  hurt  him  or  not.  It 's  awkward. 
We  can't  leave  him  lying  here  in  the  street,  although  he  de 
serves  no  better  treatment.  I  wish  I  had  a  horse  here.  You 
don't  happen  to  know  of  one,  do  you,  Sally?" 

"N  —  no,"  she  answered  slowly,  "not  near  here.  I  sup 
pose  I  could  get  Sawny,  if  you  would  wait." 

Fox  laughed.    "  I  don't  want  to  ask  Everett  for  Sawny." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  271 

"Neither  do  I."  The  sound  of  a  horse's  hoofs  came  to 
them  faintly.  "There's  one  now.  I  '11  run  to  the  corner  and 
stop  him."  And,  before  Fox  could  make  any  reply,  she  was 
off,  running. 

The  sound  of  the  horse's  hoofs  stopped  and  presently 
came  on,  down  the  street. 

"Hello!"  cried  a  voice.  "Is  that  Doctor  Sanderson? 
What  can  I  do?" 

"  It's  Eugene  Spencer,  Fox,"  remarked  Sally,  getting  out. 
"Was  n't  that  luck?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jane,  "was  n't  it?  Shall  I  take  Sally  home?" 

Fox  and  Sally  both  preferred  that  he  should  take  the  man. 

"  I  hate  to  ask  you  to  take  him  out  to  my  hospital,"  said 
Fox  apologetically,  "but  I  don't  know  of  anything  better. 
I  '11  telephone  them  before  you  can  get  there,  and  I  '11  be  out 
within  an  hour.  I  don't  think  he's  seriously  hurt." 

So  they  bundled  the  man  in,  and  Jane  drove  off,  rather 
crestfallen.  For  his  part,  he  thought  that  he  ought  to  take 
Sally  home  first,  at  least.  The  man  still  lurking  in  the  shad 
ows  hurled  vile  epithets  and  obscenities  and  ran  after  Jane. 

Fox  laughed  a  little,  nervously.  "Hope  he  has  a  pleasant 
chase.  He'll  hardly  catch  Spencer."  Eugene  was  already  at 
the  corner.  "My  first  patient,  Sally,  although  the  Retreat 
is  not  open  yet.  This  man  is  not  the  kind  of  patient  I  shall 
hope  to  have,  but  it  seemed  better  to  send  him  there  and 
avoid  publicity.  We  can  take  good  care  of  him.  Hello!" 

There  was  some  kind  of  an  uproar  just  around  the  corner. 
It  lasted  only  a  moment  and  then  Eugene  came  driving 
back,  alone. 

"That  man  of  yours,"  he  said,  pulling  up  short," recovered 
very  suddenly,  rolled  out,  and  the  pair  of  them  ran  down  the 
street  like  scared  rabbits.  I  did  n't  chase  them,  for  I  thought 
that  you  would  probably  be  glad  enough  to  get  rid  of  him." 

"I  am,"  Fox  replied,  with  evident  relief.  "He  can't  be 
much  hurt.  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  Spencer." 

"Shan't  I  take  Sally  home?  Or  there's  room  for  both  of 
you,  if  you  don't  mind  a  little  crowding." 


272  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"We  will  walk  home,  thank  you,  Jane,"  said  Sally,  with 
the  finality  he  had  come  to  expect.  "I  have  n't  seen  Fox 
for  a  long  time  and  I  have  a  lot  to  say  to  him." 

So  Eugene,  muttering  something  under  his  breath,  made 
a  very  short  turn,  in  which  process  he  very  nearly  tipped 
over,  and  gave  his  horse  a  cut  with  the  whip.  The  animal, 
which  was  not  expecting  this  and  did  not  deserve  it,  gave 
a  bound  and  they  were  gone. 

Sally  chuckled.  "Display  of  temper  on  Mr.  Spencer's 
part,"  Fox  observed,  "wholly  uncalled  for.  Bad  for  the 
horse,  too.  I  judge  that  he  is  not  the  equal  of  Everett  as  a 
horse  trainer." 

Sally's  chuckling  broke  out  afresh.  "No,  he's  not,  I'm 
afraid.  Those  displays  of  temper  are  not  unusual.  Now,  Fox, 
come  along." 

Fox  was  a  little  surprised  —  just  a  little  —  to  feel  Sally's 
hand  within  his  arm,  but  he  did  know  better  than  to  show 
his  surprise,  if  there  were  some  things  that  he  did  n't  know. 
If  he  had  only  known,  he  —  well  —  but  Sally  was  speaking  to 
him. 

"Now,  Fox,"  she  was  saying,  "how  in  the  world  did  you 
happen  to  turn  up  just  at  that  moment?  You  were  in  the 
nick  of  time." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that.  You  would  probably  have 
left  them.  They  were  about  all  in,  both  of  them.  But  I  did  n't 
happen  to  turn  up.  It  was  n't  any  accident.  I  was  looking 
for  you." 

Unconsciously,  Sally  tightened  her  hold  upon  his  arm. 
"Oh,"  she  murmured,  "that  was  nice!" 

"I  only  got  here  this  afternoon,"  Fox  continued,  paying 
no  obvious  attention  to  her  murmured  remark,  "and  I  went 
right  to  Mrs.  Stump's.  I  found  your  mother  a  little  upset  and 
rather  anxious,  but  I  did  n't  succeed  in  finding  out  what  it 
was  about."  He  did  not  say  —  perhaps  he  did  not  know  — 
how  upset  Mrs.  Ladue  had  been.  She  had  been  torn  by  con 
flicting  emotions,  and  she  showed  evidences  of  it.  But  there 
had  been  never  a  moment's  hesitation  about  the  course  she 


CONCERNING  SALLY  273 

would  pursue.  Only  she  had  raised  troubled,  tearful  eyes  to 
Fox,  and  had  said  —  but  what  Mrs.  Ladue  had  said  forms 
no  part  of  this  chronicle.  Whatever  she  said,  she  did  not 
tell  him  clearly  of  the  rumors  connecting  Everett's  name 
with  Sally's.  He  would  hear  those  rumors  soon  enough,  if 
there  was  anything  in  them;  if  there  was  not,  for  that 
matter. 

Sally  had  been  thinking.  "I  am  afraid,"  she  said  softly, 
"that  it  was  about  me.  I  hoped  she  was  all  over  it  when  I 
left." 

Fox  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  her,  but  he  did  not 
reply  to  her  remark  directly.  "She  said  that  you  had  gone 
for  a  walk,  but  she  did  n't  know  where.  I  waited  a  long 
time,  thinking  you  might  come  in.  Your  mother  and  I  had 
a  long  talk." 

Sally  would  have  given  a  good  deal  to  know  what  the 
long  talk  was  about.  "It  —  it  is  n't  true,  Fox,"  she  began 
slowly. 

"What!  It  is  true,  too.  We  talked  for  an  hour  and  forty 
minutes,  while  I  was  waiting.  I  know." 

Sally  laughed  nervously.  "I  —  I  meant  that  anything  you 
may  hear  about  me  is  n't  true." 

"  Clear  as  mud,  Sally.  Well,  I  '11  remember.  Anything  that 
I  hear  about  you  is  n't  true.  But  I  'm  not  likely  to  hear  the 
voice  of  rumor  especially  if  it's  about  you." 

Sally  made  no  reply  to  this,  and  Fox  went  on.  "When  it 
began  to  grow  dark,  I  made  some  inquiries,  and  I  found  a  cer 
tain  person  who  had  seen  you  go  out;  and  you  had  met  a 
man  at  the  next  corner  —  Who  was  the  man,  Sally?" 

"Everett,"  Sally  replied  briefly;  and  she  started  to  say 
more,  but  thought  better  of  it  —  or  worse,  as  you  like  — 
and  shut  her  lips  tight  together. 

"Oh,  yes,  she  said  she  thought  it  was  Everett.  I  thought 
that,  perhaps,  she  was  mistaken." 

"No,"  said  Sally,  "she  was  not  mistaken." 

"Hum!"  said  Fox,  smiling  to  himself;  but  Sally  could  not 
see  that.  "And  this  exceedingly  well-informed  person  said 


274  CONCERNING  SALLY 

that  you  and  Everett  evidently  had  a  spat  on  the  street 
corner,  and  that  he  went  off,  mad." 

"Yes,"  said  Sally,  nodding.  She  might  have  known  that 
Fox  could  n't  see  the  nod. 

"Too  bad!"  said  Fox.  "Exemplary  young  man  —  espe 
cially  one  who  has  seen  the  world  and  who  has  as  perfect 
manners  as  Everett  wishes  it  to  be  thought  that  he  has  — 
should  n't  go  off  mad.  Very  young.  It  reminds  one  of  your 
young  friend,  Spencer.  We  should  expect  him  to  go  off 
mad,  should  n't  we,  Sally?" 

Sally  chuckled  again.    "We  should." 

"Well,"  Fox  resumed,  "finding  that  you  had  been  last 
seen  hiking  down  the  street  without  male  escort,  Everett 
having  got  mad  and  declined  to  play  and  gone  home,  — 
it  is  to  be  hoped  that  he  had  gone  home,  —  I  put  out  after 
you,  lippety-clippety.  All  the  male  inhabitants  of  Whitby 
seem  to  think  that  is  their  chief  end  in  life." 

"Oh,  Fox,"  said  Sally  faintly,  "they  don't." 

"They  do,"  Fox  insisted;  "all  except  Dick."  He  laughed. 
"Speaking  of  Dick  reminds  me  that  I  have  something  to  tell 
you  if  you  don't  let  me  forget  it.  Well,  loping  along  that 
way,  I  came  to  the  historic  corner  —  of  what  street?" 

"  River  Street.  How  did  you  happen  to  come  that  way  ?  " 

"  Followed  my  nose.  You  had  gone  along  this  street.  So  did 
I.  You  came  to  the  corner.  So  did  I,  and  I  nearly  ran  into  you." 

She  shivered  a  little.  Fox  felt  it,  and  held  his  arm  closer 
to  him. 

"Are  you  cold,  Sally?" 

"No."  She  spoke  low.  "But  I'm  glad  you  came,  Fox. 
I'm  very  glad." 

"So  am  I,  for  several  reasons  not  to  be  catalogued  at 
present."  They  had  almost  reached  Mrs.  Stump's.  "Oh, 
I  was  going  to  tell  you  something  in  connection  with  Dick. 
Henrietta's  engaged.  She  wanted  me  to  tell  you.  So,  it  is  to 
be  presumed,  is  Dick." 

"I'm  very  glad,  but  I'm  not  surprised.  I  don't  suppose 
Henrietta  expected  me  to  be." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  275 

"She  did  n't  mention  it,  so  you  don't  have  to  be." 

"  I  '11  write  to  her  to-night.  So  that  accounts  for  Dick's 
mysterious  disappearances." 

"  He 's  been  visiting  us  at  your  old  place,  Sally.  He  was  so 
much  interested  in  seeing  your  favorite  trees  and  in  hearing 
about  you,  that  Henrietta  felt  rather  jealous." 

Sally  laughed  derisively.  They  were  standing  at  the  foot 
of  Mrs.  Stump's  fine  granite  steps.  Fox  was  silent  for  a 
moment,  looking  at  Sally. 

"I  know,"  he  said  at  last  thoughtfully,  "I  know  where 
there  are  some  gynesaurus  trees  near  Whitby." 

Sally's  face  lighted  up.  "Could  a  person  climb  them, 
Fox?" 

"A  person  about  twenty-two  years  old?"  asked  Fox.  "I 
should  think  she  might  if  she  is  able." 

"She  is  able,"  she  returned,  nodding  emphatically.  "Will 
you  tell  me  where  they  are?" 

"Some  day,"  Fox  answered,  not  looking  at  her,  "I  will 
show  them  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

SALLY  was  in  rather  better  spirits  for  some  time  after 
that  walk  to  Fisherman's  Cove,  although  there  is  some 
doubt  whether  the  improvement  was  due  to  her  brief 
sight  of  the  Cove  under  a  winter  sun  and  moon  or  to  realiza 
tion  of  the  fact  that  a  great  number  of  people  were  worse 
off  than  she  or  to  her  break  with  Everett  or  to  seeing  Fox 
again.  But  her  break  with  Everett  was  of  only  a  temporary 
nature,  a  fact  which  he  made  very  evident  to  her,  at  least, 
and,  incidentally,  to  Miss  Miller  and  to  Miss  Lambkin  and 
to  Mrs.  Upjohn  and  to  many  others;  and,  as  for  seeing 
Fox,  she  had  been  enjoying  that  privilege  for  twelve  years, 
from  time  to  time.  To  be  sure,  it  had  occasionally  been  a  long 
while  from  time  to  time,  but  that  had  not  seemed  to  trouble 
Sally.  So,  altogether,  we  are  forced  to  abandon  the  inquiry 
as  fruitless.  Sally,  if  we  had  asked  her,  would  have  smiled 
and  would  have  answered  quite  truly  that  she  did  n't  know 
and  she  did  n't  care.  It  was  the  fact  which  was  most  impor 
tant;  the  fact  was,  indeed,  of  the  only  importance,  except 
to  persons  like  Miss  Letty  Lambkin,  who  are  never  satisfied 
with  the  simple  facts  of  life,  but  must  dig  down  until  they 
find  certain  diseased  roots,  which  they  fondly  believe,  with 
out  further  tracing,  to  be  the  roots  of  those  facts,  but  which, 
more  often  than  not,  do  not  belong  to  them  at  all,  but  to 
some  other  tree. 

Fox's  hospital  had  had  an  opening,  to  which  the  inhabi 
tants  of  Whitby  were  invited.  Whitby,  in  a  way,  was  as 
exclusive  as  Philadelphia,  and  Fox's  cards  of  invitation  were 
addressed  only  to  those  fortunate  persons  living  in  a  certain 
restricted  area.  That  area  was  bounded,  on  the  east,  by  the 
Cow  Path,  although  a  few  cards  found  their  way  down  the 
hill  as  far  as  Mrs.  Stump's  and  Miss  Miller's.  Consequently, 


CONCERNING  SALLY  277 

Patty  went  and  so  did  Mrs.  Ladue  and  Sally.  It  might  have 
been  a  reception,  for  they  found  there  nearly  the  whole  of 
the  elite  of  Whitby  and  no  one  else,  and  the  whole  of  the 
hospital  staff  were  engaged  in  showing  small  parties  of  the 
aforesaid  61ite  over  the  hospital  and  the  farm  connected  with 
it.  The  hospital  staff  had  no  other  engagements,  there  being 
no  patients  yet.  Patty  was  delighted  with  it  —  and  with  the 
staff  —  and  expressed  her  intention  of  coming  out  to  board 
as  soon  as  the  spring  opened.  And  Fox,  to  whom  this  speech 
was  addressed  —  it  was  delivered  in  rather  a  coquettish 
manner,  all  Miss  Patty's  own  —  smiled  and  bowed  and 
made  no  reply.  Perhaps  no  reply  was  expected.  Fox  had 
heard  many  such  remarks.  He  would  have  his  patients 
from  among  the  makers  of  them. 

As  soon  as  he  could,  Fox  took  Mrs.  Ladue  and  Sally  out 
over  the  farm.  Patty  was  deep  in  conversation  with  Doctor 
Beatty.  So  he  missed  her,  to  his  great  regret,  he  said.  But, 
never  mind.  She'll  have  a  chance  to  see  it.  And  thereupon 
he  smiled  enigmatically,  and  proceeded  to  show  them  what 
had  been  done.  He  was  proud  of  it.  When  he  had  shown 
them  all  of  it,  he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  old  cream- 
colored  square  house. 

"My  residence,"  he  said.  "I  am  afraid  that  it  will  have 
to  remain  shut  up  as  it  is,  for  the  present.  Henrietta's  change 
of  plan  —  or,  I  should  n't  say  that,  perhaps  —  her  engage 
ment  knocks  my  scheme  of  things  in  the  head.  She  is  to  be 
married  in  June,  you  know." 

"But,  Fox,"  Mrs.  Ladue  exclaimed,  "surely,  you  don't 
mean  that  you  won't  open  the  house  at  all ! "  She  was  sorry 
for  him.  Why  did  he  have  to  miss  the  satisfaction  of  living 
in  his  own  house?  Such  a  house,  too! 

He  nodded.  "  I  don't  see  any  prospect  of  it,"  he  answered, 
rather  gloomily  for  him;  "at  least,"  he  added,  with  a  short 
laugh,  "until  I  am  married.  There  is  really  no  reason  for 
it,  you  know.  There  is  likely  to  be  room  enough  at  this  end 
of  the  establishment  for  some  time." 

It  was  Margaret  Savage  he  referred  to,  Sally  supposed. 


278  CONCERNING  SALLY 

At  least,  Henrietta,  she  remembered,  had  said  —  had  in 
timated  it.  Suddenly,  she  hated  the  old  house. 

"It's  a  shame,"  Mrs.  Ladue  said  softly.  "It's  a  perfect 
shame,  Fox.  If  —  if  you  want  to  live  in  it,  there's  no  rea 
son—" 

Fox  shook  his  head.  "It  would  n't  be  best  or  wise,  dear 
Mrs.  Ladue,"  he  said  gently.  "  I  can  wait." 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  show  it  to  us?"  asked  Mrs.  Ladue 
then,  with  heightened  color.  "We  should  like  to  see  the 
inside,  should  n't  we,  Sally?" 

But  Sally  did  not  have  a  chance  to  reply.  "  Not  to-day," 
said  Fox.  "Sometime,  soon,  I  hope,  but  not  to-day." 

He  said  no  more  and  Mrs.  Ladue  said  nothing  and  Sally 
said  nothing;  and  they  went  in  again,  by  unanimous  consent, 
and  presently  Mrs.  Ladue  and  Sally  and  Patty  drove  away, 
although  so  early  a  departure  was  much  against  Patty's 
inclination.  They  would  not  have  succeeded  in  getting  her 
to  go  at  all  but  that  Fox  took  Doctor  Beatty  off  to  show  him 
something,  and  Doctor  Beatty  thanked  him,  although  he 
did  not  make  it  clear  whether  it  was  for  wanting  to  show 
him  the  something  or  for  taking  him  away.  But  Meri- 
wether  Beatty  had  shown  a  capacity  for  leaving  Patty 
when  he  felt  like  it,  so  that  I  am  forced  to  conclude  that 
that  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  thanks.  When  they  got 
back  to  Mrs.  Stump's  they  found  a  letter  from  Charlie 
waiting  for  them  on  the  hall  table.  I  may  add  that  Patty 
found  a  letter  from  Charlie,  also,  but  it  was  not  like  the 
one  to  his  mother  and  Sally.  It  differed  from  theirs  in 
several  important  particulars. 

Charlie  wrote  a  letter  home  every  week,  with  unfailing 
regularity.  It  was  a  perfunctory  letter,  filled  with  the  un 
important  happenings  at  college.  It  never  gave  any  inform 
ation  about  himself  except  on  those  rare  occasions  when  he 
had  something  favorable  to  report,  and  it  did  not  need  to 
be  anything  exceptionally  favorable  either. 

He  wrote  to  Patty  irregularly,  sometimes  more  often 
sometimes  less,  depending  upon  his  needs.  Once,  when  he 


CONCERNING  SALLY  279 

had  been  having  an  unusually  good  run  of  luck,  he  let  nearly 
three  weeks  elapse  between  letters,  and  then  his  next  letter 
was  almost  seven  pages  long  and  contained  no  reference  to 
money.  Patty  had  been  awaiting  a  letter  nervously  and 
opened  this  one  with  fear  and  trembling.  The  combination, 
after  such  an  interval,  transported  Patty  with  delight,  and 
she  ran  over  at  once  to  show  the  letter  to  Mrs.  Ladue.  It 
was  the  only  one  that  she  did  show  to  Mrs.  Ladue,  for  all  the 
others  either  were  evidently  dictated  by  a  necessity  more  or 
less  dire,  or  they  referred  to  previous  "loans"  of  which  Mrs. 
Ladue  and  Sally  knew  nothing.  Patty  always  managed  to 
supply  his  needs,  although  sometimes  with  extreme  diffi 
culty  and  with  a  great  casting  up  of  accounts,  in  which 
process  many  perfectly  good  pencils  were  consumed  in  a 
manner  for  which  they  were  not  intended.  If  the  makers  of 
pencils  had  designed  them  for  such  use,  they  would  have 
made  them  with  lolly-pops  or  chewing-gum  on  one  end. 

Charlie's  letters  to  Patty  were  triumphs  of  art,  and  would 
have  made  his  scholastic  fortune  if  they  could  have  been 
presented  as  daily  themes.  If  they  were  not  always  free 
from  error,  they  were  always  readable  and  the  matter  was 
treated  in  a  way  which  unfailingly  would  have  been  of  in 
terest  to  any  one  but  Patty,  and  they  showed  evidence  of  a 
lively  and  well-nourished  imagination  which  was  not  al 
lowed  to  become  atrophied.  "William  Henry's  Letters  to 
his  Grandmother,"  although  of  a  somewhat  different  nature, 
were  not  a  patch  upon  them. 

But  Patty  was  too  much  concerned  about  the  matter 
treated  in  these  letters  to  be  interested  in  their  literary  value ; 
and,  besides,  she  was  not  in  a  position  to  know  the  extent 
of  the  exercise  to  which  Charlie's  imagination  was  subjected 
in  the  course  of  composition.  Her  own  imagination  was  not 
without  exercise,  for  she  had  to  finance  his  requests. 

Patty's  financing,  that  winter,  would  have  done  credit  to  a 
promoter.  She  had  already  succeeded  in  getting  herself  in 
volved  deeply  with  the  builder  who  was  repairing  her  house 
and  with  Dick,  although  Dick  was  as  yet  in  blissful  ignor- 


280  CONCERNING  SALLY 

ance  of  the  fact.  The  builder  had  been  paid  but  very  little 
since  Christmas;  but  he,  being  an  elderly  man  who  had 
known  her  father  well ,  and  who,  accordingly,  trusted  any  mem 
ber  of  the  family  implicitly,  had  said  nothing  yet.  Patty 
wondered,  with  some  fear  and  trembling,  how  much  longer 
he  would  go  on  without  saying  anything.  And  then  she  put 
the  whole  matter  aside.  She  could  not  see  her  way  out  yet. 

It  was  not  that  she  considered  the  repairs  upon  her  house, 
which  amounted  almost  to  rebuilding,  as  properly  any  busi 
ness  of  Dick's.  But,  unaccountably  and  inscrutably  to  Patty, 
if  not  to  her  friends  and  acquaintances,  her  father  had  given 
Richard  Torrington  great  discretion,  under  his  will.  The 
Richard  aforesaid  was  even  empowered  to  keep  the  manage 
ment  of  all  Patty's  property  and  to  give  her  no  more  than  a 
stated  allowance,  if  he  saw  good  reason  to  do  so.  Mr.  Hazen 
had  made  him  virtually  a  trustee,  perhaps  actually;  but,  so 
far,  he  seemed  to  regard  himself  as  no  more  than  the  channel 
through  which  Patty's  money  must  necessarily  flow  and  he 
honored  all  her  requests,  asking  only  that  she  tell  him  the 
general  purpose  to  which  the  money  was  to  be  applied. 

In  consequence  of  this  situation,  there  had  been  certain 
checks  signed  by  Richard  Torrington,  Executor,  designed 
to  be  applied  to  payments  upon  the  house.  Several  of  these 
checks  had  been  hypothecated  by  Patty  and  diverted  to  other 
uses.  Possibly  Charlie  Ladue  could  have  given  some  infor 
mation  as  to  those  uses.  Certainly  Patty  could  not.  She 
knew  nothing  at  all  of  the  ultimate  purposes  to  which  her 
money  was  put.  For  that  matter,  Charlie's  knowledge  went 
only  one  step  farther.  He  was  nothing  but  a  channel  through 
which  Patty's  money  necessarily  flowed.  A  good,  generous 
sewer-pipe  would  have  served  as  well,  for  all  the  good  that 
the  money  did  him;  and  the  process  was  rapidly  under 
mining  Patty's  morals. 

It  was  a  great  pity  that  Patty  had  chosen  this  method  of 
supply.  As  long  as  she  was  bound  to  keep  Charlie  supplied 
with  whatever  he  asked  for,  or  as  nearly  as  she  could  come 
to  that,  it  would  have  been  much  better  to  ask  Dick  to 


CONCERNING  SALLY  281 

double  her  allowance  for  her  personal  use.  He  might  have 
wondered  at  such  a  request,  but  he  would  have  done  it  with 
out  question,  and  thereby  Patty's  self-respect  would  have 
been  saved  without  producing  any  effect  upon  Charlie's  in 
either  way.  One  wonders  whether  Charlie  had  any  shreds 
of  self-respect  left,  anyway. 

So  it  is  difficult  to  say  whether  Patty  looked  forward  with 
greater  joy  than  dread  to  Charlie's  coming  home  for  the 
Easter  recess.  For  some  weeks  he  had  kept  her  stirred  up 
by  his  requests,  but  these  requests  were  for  relatively  small 
sums,  ten  dollars  or  twenty-five,  and  once  he  asked  for  fifty. 
But  for  ten  days  before  his  vacation,  he  had  asked  her  for 
nothing,  and  her  fears  were  forgotten. 

When,  at  last,  the  Easter  recess  began,  Charlie  appeared 
promptly  on  the  afternoon  when  he  should  have  appeared 
and  he  looked  neither  forlorn  nor  seedy.  To  a  careful  eye, 
a  loving  eye,  watching  him  for  some  days,  he  might  have 
seemed  to  be  possessed  of  an  anxiety  which  he  took  pains 
to  conceal;  but  it  was  an  elusive  thing  and,  if  he  chose  to 
deny  its  existence,  how  was  one  to  prove  it? 

Sally  thought  that  she  detected  something,  she  could  not 
tell  just  what,  and  she  asked  her  mother,  casually,  whether 
she  had  noticed  anything. 

Mrs.  Ladue  looked  up  quickly.  "I  can't  tell,  Sally," 
she  replied.  "  I  thought  I  did,  and  I  spoke  to  Charlie  about 
it,  but  he  assured  me  that  there  was  nothing  wrong  and  that 
it  must  be  all  my  imagination.  I  could  n't  press  the  question. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  afraid  to.  He  seems  to  have  no  dis 
position  to  confide  in  me  and  to  have  a  low  opinion  of  my 
judgment,  but  I  should  n't  like  to  have  him  say  so.  If  — 
if  you  could  speak  to  him  — " 

"Very  well,"  said  Sally,  sighing  wearily,  "  I  will,  although 
I  have  no  hope  of  accomplishing  anything  by  it  —  except 
arousing  his  suspicion,"  she  added  with  a  short  laugh,  "if 
there  is  anything  which  worries  him  and  which  he  is  unwill 
ing  to  tell.  We  are  not  in  Charlie's  confidence." 

"We  have  not  been  —  /  have  not  been  in  his  confidence 


282  CONCERNING  SALLY 

for  eleven  years  —  since  I  was  taken  sick."  Mrs.  Ladue 
sighed  in  her  turn.  "He  seems  like  a  stranger.  I  have  n't 
been  able  to  get  near  him.  But  he  seems  to  be  rather  afraid 
of  your  judgment,  Sally." 

"That's  not  a  great  help,"  Sally  remarked  with  another 
short  laugh,  "in  getting  near  him,  is  it?  But  I'll  try." 

Accordingly  Sally  asked  him  whether  —  she  was  careful 
to  put  the  question  in  as  natural  a  form  as  possible  and  she 
tried  to  make  it  seem  casual,  too  —  she  asked  him  whether 
there  was  anything  he  would  like  to  have  them  do  for  him. 
It  is  not  likely  that  she  succeeded  thoroughly  in  either  of 
these  attempts,  for  Charlie  only  looked  startled  and  an 
swered  that  he  did  n't  think  there  was  anything.  And  he 
added  that  he  was  a  little  anxious  about  his  reports.  If  they 
were  not  as  good  as  they  might  be,  he  hoped  that  mother 
would  not  be  too  much  disappointed.  And  Sally  had  shrugged 
a  little  and  smiled  a  little  and  shown  a  little  of  the  contempt 
which  she  always  felt  for  lying.  She  did  not  know  that 
Charlie  was  lying,  but  she  felt  that  he  was,  and  she  could 
not  have  helped  that  little  smile  of  contempt  to  save  her 
life.  But  Charlie  did  not  recognize  her  smile  as  one  of  con 
tempt.  He  went  off  to  see  Patty,  smiling  and  patting  himself 
on  the  back  for  having  thrown  Sally  off  the  scent  so  cleverly. 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  either  Mrs.  Ladue  or  Sally 
was  so  lacking  in  natural  affection  that  she  let  Charlie 
go  on  the  way  he  was  going  without  a  struggle  —  without 
several  struggles.  Not  that  they  knew  just  the  way  he  was 
going,  but  they  knew  very  well  that  they  had  lost  all  their 
control  over  him ;  the  control  which  is  due  to  a  mutual  love. 
It  was  Charlie  who  had  shown  a  lack  of  natural  affection. 
His  mother  had  struggled  in  vain  against  that  lack  and  against 
the  effect  of  Patty's  indulgence.  As  for  Sally,  if  the  love  and 
regard  of  ten  or  twelve  years  before,  a  love  very  like  a 
mother's,  had  been  changed  insensibly  into  the  tolerant 
contempt  of  the  strong  for  the  weak  —  not  always  perfectly 
tolerant,  I  am  afraid  —  Charlie  had  only  himself  to  blame, 
But,  as  for  blaming  himself  —  pfooh !  Much  he  cared ! 


CHAPTER  XIV 

CHARLIE  stood  by  the  mantel  in  Patty's  room,  in  such 
an  attitude  as  he  imagined  that  Everett  might  take, 
under  similar  circumstances,  and  he  was  trying  to 
look  troubled.  It  was  an  imitation  mantel  by  which  he 
stood,  being  no  more  than  a  marble  slab  set  upon  iron  brack 
ets;  for  the  real  mantel,  of  wood,  which  had  surrounded  a 
real  fireplace  of  generous  proportions,  had  been  removed 
when  the  fireplace  had  been  bricked  up  and  a  register  in 
serted.  That  register,  of  the  regulation  black,  now  stared 
at  Miss  Patty  as  she  sat  facing  Charlie,  and  it  emitted  a  thin 
column  of  faintly  warm  air.  Altogether,  it  was  a  poor  substi 
tute  for  a  fire  and  a  gloomy  thing  to  contemplate.  Charlie's 
attitude,  too,  as  has  been  intimated,  was  but  an  imitation. 
His  trouble  was  no  imitation,  though,  and  his  attempt  to 
look  troubled  succeeded  beyond  his  fondest  hopes. 

Patty  had  been  looking  at  him  for  some  time,  growing 
more  anxious  every  minute.  Charlie  had  said  nothing  at  all, 
but  had  kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  distance ;  upon  such  dis 
tance  as  he  could  get  through  Patty's  window.  That  was 
not  so  very  much,  the  distance  being  limited  by  the  house 
across  the  street,  perhaps  sixty  feet  away.  At  intervals  he 
sighed  heavily,  the  time  between  sighs  apparently  —  to 
Patty,  at  least,  his  only  hearer  —  apparently  occupied  by 
equally  heavy  thinking. 

At  last  Patty  could  stand  it  no  longer.  "What  is  it, 
Charlie,  dear?"  she  asked  in  a  voice  which  trembled  a  little. 
"What  is  the  matter,  dear  boy?" 

Charlie  forced  a  smile,  his  frown  disappeared  for  an  in 
stant,  and  he  brought  his  gaze  back,  with  a  great  effort,  a 
superhuman  effort,  to  things  near  at  hand:  eventually  to 
Patty  herself. 


284  CONCERNING   SALLY 

"Oh,  nothing,"  he  said  gently.  "Nothing  at  all."  And 
he  resumed  his  gazing  at  the  front  of  that  house,  sixty  feet 
away,  and  his  frowning  and  his  sighing  and  his  heavy  think 
ing. 

Patty  was  silent  for  some  minutes.  "Won't  you  tell  me? " 
she  asked  then.  "  I  am  sure  there  must  be  something  which 
troubles  you.  You  know  you  can  count  on  my  sympathy." 

Charlie  went  through  the  same  process  as  before.  It  took 
time.  "What  did  you  say?"  he  said  absently,  when  his  look 
had,  at  last,  come  down  to  Patty.  "Sympathy?  I  'm  afraid 
that  won't  do  me  much  good."  He  smiled;  a  smile  that  was 
meant  to  be  pitiful.  "But,  no.  There 's  nothing  the  matter. 
Nothing  at  all,  I  assure  you.  It's  all  my  own  fault  anyway; 
my  misfortune,  rather,"  he  added,  so  low  that  Patty  barely 
heard,  and  she  thought  that  the  words  were  not  meant  for 
her  ears.  That  was  exactly  in  accordance  with  Charlie's  in 
tention. 

"Charlie!"  she  cried.  "Charlie!  You've  got  to  tell  me. 
I  heard  those  last  words  which  you  did  n't  mean  me  to  hear. 
Now,  you've  got  to  tell  me."  Her  voice  trembled  more  than 
ever. 

Charlie  could  not  seem  to  resist  this  plea.  He  looked  at  her 
pityingly,  and  he  drew  a  long  breath. 

"Well,  Pat,"  he  said  —  Pat  was  his  pet  name  for  her, 
used  only  under  stress  —  "well,  Pat,  if  you  must  have  it, 
then  here  goes.  I'm  only  out,  for  this  vacation,  on  bail. 
I've  got  to — " 

"Wh-what?"  asked  Patty  faintly.  Her  heart  was  playing 
mad  pranks  and  she  put  up  her  hand  to  steady  it.  At  least, 
that  seemed  to  be  her  idea.  "What  was  that  you  said, 
Charlie?  Oh,  Charlie,  dear!" 

"  Bail "  and  "  jail "  sound  very  much  alike.  They  conveyed 
about  the  same  idea  to  poor  Patty.  Under  certain  circum 
stances,  they  convey  about  the  same  idea  to  the  one  most 
intimately  concerned. 

Charlie  did  not  appear  to  be  affected.  "  I  've  got  to  show 
up  day  after  to-morrow  or  forfeit  my  bail,"  he  continued  un- 


CONCERNING  SALLY  285 

feelingly.  "  Well, "  he  said  doggedly,  "  I  will.  I  may  have  to 
go  to  jail,  but  what  of  it?" 

"  Oh,  Charlie,  dear ! ' '  Patty  cried,  more  faintly  than  before. 
"Oh,  Charlie,  dear!  Whatever  have  you  done  that  you 
should  talk  of  going  to  —  to  —  Charlie,  I  feel  faint.  My 
salts,  dear,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "  They  are  on  the  top  of  my 
bureau,  in  that  green  bottle." 

"  Charlie  dear "  obediently  got  the  little  green  bottle, 
stifling  a  smile  which  would  curl  the  corners  of  his  mouth, 
in  spite  of  himself,  while  his  back  was  turned  to  Patty. 
When  he  came  back  to  her  he  looked  properly  concerned; 
but  Patty's  eyes  were  closed.  He  removed  the  stopper  and 
held  the  bottle  close  under  her  nose,  to  revive  her,  which 
happy  event  occurred  with  a  suddenness  that  was  a  surprise 
to  Patty,  at  least.  She  gasped  and  gave  a  little  choking  cry. 

"Oh,  Charlie!  Not  so  cl-close." 

"All  right  now,  Pat?"  he  asked  with  a  cheerfulness  that 
was  evidently  assumed.  He  removed  the  bottle  and  put  in 
the  stopper. 

"I  —  I  think  so,"  she  replied,  still  faintly.  " Now  —  go 
—  on,  Charlie.  Tell  me.  I  think  I  can  bear  it.  I  '11  try  to." 

"Why,"  said  Charlie,  "there's  nothing  to  tell.  I  got  bail 
so  that  I  could  come  home  for  my  Easter  vacation.  Time 's 
up  day  after  to-morrow,  and  I  've  got  to  show  up  or  forfeit 
my  bail." 

"Who  is  the  —  the  bailer?"  Patty  inquired  as  if  it  were 
her  last  breath. 

"One  of  the  other  men,"  Charlie  returned  glibly.  "He 
is  n't  really  rich  either,  so  he  could  n't  very  well  afford  to  have 
me  jump  it." 

"Jump  it?"  Patty  repeated.  She  was  getting  pretty  well 
dazed. 

"Yes,"  said  Charlie  impatiently.  "Haven't  you  ever 
heard  that  expression?  It's  the  legal  expression  for  failing 
to  show  up  and  forfeiting  your  bail.  If  I  should  jump  it,  that 
other  man  would  have  to  pay  the  amount  of  my  bail." 

"Ho-how  much  is  it?"  Patty  asked  in  a  trembling  voice. 


286  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Charlie  made  a  rapid  mental  calculation.  "One  thousand 
dollars,"  he  said. 

"One  thousand  dollars!"  repeated  poor  Patty  slowly. 
"One  thou  —  but,  Charlie,"  for  a  gleam  of  light  had  come 
to  her, —  "  but,  Charlie,  what  is  it  for?  What  ha-haveyou 
done?  Oh,  it  is  too  terrible!" 

"I  have  n't  done  much  of  anything,  really,"  Charlie  pro 
tested;  "nothing  worth  mentioning  if  we  had  n't  had  an  ac 
cident." 

"An  accident!"  Patty  murmured. 

"Yes,  an  accident.  You  see  there  were  four  of  us  that 
thought  it  would  be  fun  —  and  no  harm,  Pat,  really,  if  things 
had  n't  gone  wrong  —  to  take  a  little  run  in  a  motor  —  an 
automobile.  Fostrow  has  a  car  of  his  own  at  home,  and  he 
was  to  drive.  In  fact,  he  did."  Charlie  chuckled,  as  though 
at  the  recollection.  "He  did  until  he  had  got  us  arrested 
twice  for  speeding.  But  that  was  a  small  matter,  only 
twenty-five  dollars  a  time.  Fostrow  paid  that  himself.  He 
said  it  was  worth  double  the  money  to  see  those  country 
men  get  out  of  the  way.  And  we  ran  over  a  dog.  It  turned 
out  to  be  a  very  valuable  dog.  All  that  is  in  the  day's  work, 
though.  We — " 

"Oh,  Charlie,"  Patty  interrupted,  "I  knew  you  would  get 
into  trouble  if  you  went  in  those  horrible  machines,  at  any 
rate,  without  a  competent  and  reliable  driver.  I  have  always 
thought  that  Edward  would  be  the  driver  I  should  choose ; 
so  steady  and  — " 

"Edward!"  Charlie  exclaimed.  He  had  been  about  to 
add  something  further,  in  the  way  of  comment,  but  he 
thought  better  of  it.  "No  doubt,  Edward  would  be  very 
steady,  but  he  is  too  old,  to  my  way  of  thinking.  Well,  we 
had  gone  about  fifty  miles  and  began  to  think  it  was  time 
to  go  back.  So  we  filled  up  our  gasoline  tank,  got  something 
to  eat,  and  started  back.  It  was  dark  by  that  time.  We  were 
rather  hurrying  over  the  country  roads,  when  something 
went  wrong  with  the  steering-gear  and  the  next  thing  I  knew 
I  was  lying  on  the  other  side  of  a  stone  wall  — " 


CONCERNING  SALLY  287 

"O-oh!"  shuddered  Patty. 

' '  —  And  the  machine  was  completely  smashed  —  crumpled 
up  —  with  a  telephone  pole  on  top  of  it.  Then  the  gasoline 
caught  fire  and  the  whole  thing  burned  up,  pole  and  all. 
The  other  men  were  more  or  less  hurt,  but  I  had  n't  a  scratch, 
only  some  bruises.  Fostrow  's  in  a  hospital  out  there,  now, 
with  two  ribs  broken.  The  owner  of  the  machine  got  after 
us.  It  was  a  new  machine  and  a  beauty;  cost  five  thousand, 
he  said.  So  that  explains  the  bail." 

"Oh,  Charlie!"  breathed  Patty.  "What  a  mercy  you 
escaped!" 

Charlie  smiled  complacently.  He  had  really  done  pretty 
well.  That  story,  he  thought,  would  be  a  credit  to  anybody. 

"But,  Charlie,"  Patty  continued,  after  a  short  silence, 
"why  don't  you  tell  Sally  the  whole  story.  She'd  find  some 
way  to  get  you  out  of  it.  She  —  she  is  really  very  good  at 
managing  affairs." 

Charlie  shivered  involuntarily.  Sally  was  very  good  at 
managing  affairs.  He  could  see  her  pitying  smile  as  she  lis 
tened  in  silence  to  his  string  of  plausible  lies  and  the  look 
from  the  gray  eyes  would  be  boring  straight  down  into  his 
soul  as  he  talked ,  and  he  would  be  afraid .  And  his  speech  would 
grow  more  halting,  and  he  would  finish  in  some  confusion 
and  Sally  would  turn  away  with  a  quiet  "Humph!"  or  she 
would  say  nothing  at  all,  which  would  be  almost  worse. 
And  she  would  not  tell  him  what  she  was  going  to  do,  but  she 
would  go  and  do  it,  and  it  —  whatever  it  was  —  would  be 
most  effective,  and  that  was  exactly  what  Charlie  did  not 
want.  He  shivered  again  as  he  thought  of  it.  Sally  managed 
affairs  too  well ;  that  was  the  trouble.  No,  distinctly  no ;  he 
did  not  want  Sally  to  have  any  hand  in  this  affair.  He 
thought  that  he  could  manage  it  very  well  himself.  It  was 
going  beautifully,  so  far. 

"No,  Pat,"  he  said  gently.  "  I  prefer  not  to  tell  Sally.  I  — 
to  tell  the  truth,  Sally  and  mother  don't  seem  very  glad  to 
see  me.  I  think  they'd  rather  I  stayed  away." 

"Oh,  you  poor  boy ! "  Patty's  eyes  shone  with  pity.  "  You 


288  CONCERNING  SALLY 

dear  boy!  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  anyway,  Charlie,  dear. 
You  have  one  friend  who  won't  desert  you." 

"Thank  you,  Pat.    I  thought  I  could  depend  on  you." 

"I'll  undertake  the  management  of  this  affair."  Patty 
spoke  with  pride.  A  faint  smile  began  to  curl  the  corners 
of  Charlie's  mouth.  He  suppressed  it.  Patty  was  deep  in 
thought;  or  she  flattered  herself  that  she  was. 

She  might  as  well  have  undertaken  to  add  a  cubit  to  her 
stature  by  taking  thought.  She  was  silent  for  some  minutes, 
looking  more  worried  with  every  minute  that  passed.  At 
last  she  looked  up. 

"Oh,  dear!"  she  said,  sighing,  "  I  can't  think  of  anything. 
It  would  n't  do  any  good  for  you  to  go  away,  would  it?" 

Charlie  shook  his  head  and  looked  very  solemn.  "No. 
That  would  mean  giving  up  my  college  course  and  jumping 
my  bail.  I  should  become  a  fugitive  from  justice."  That 
sounded  rather  impressive  and  Charlie  repeated  it,  as  im 
pressively  as  he  could.  "A  fugitive  from  justice." 

"Charlie,  don't!"  cried  Patty  wildly.  "It  sounds  as  if 
you  were  a  criminal."  Charlie  made  no  reply.  "What  would 
you  suggest?" 

"Nothing,"  he  answered  with  resignation.  "There  is 
nothing  to  be  done  but  for  me  to  surrender  myself  to  my 
bondsmen — "  That  sounded  impressive,  too.  "Surrender 
myself  to  my  bondsmen,"  he  repeated,  "and  to  the  justice 
of  the  court." 

"Oh,  Charlie!"  Patty  wailed  faintly.  "  Oh,  Charlie,  dear, 
is  n't  there  some  other  way?" 

He  shook  his  head  again.  "  No  other  way  that  I  can  see. 
No  other  way  that  would  n't  call  for  more  money  than  I 
can  possibly  raise.  For  I  won't  ask  you  for  it,  Pat.  I  simply 
won't.'" 

Patty  was  lying  back  in  her  chair.  She  seemed  to  feel 
faint  again,  and  Charlie  hurried  to  her,  the  little  green 
bottle  once  more  in  his  hand.  She  waved  it  aside. 

"H-how  much,"  she  asked,  "must  you  have,  Charlie?" 

"Never  mind  that,  Pat.  That's  settled.  It's  much  more 


CONCERNING  SALLY  289 

than  I  should  be  willing  to  ask  you  to  lend  me,  or  to  accept 
from  you.  I  '11  just  surrender  myself.  It  will  soon  be  over." 
He  spoke  as  cheerfully  as  though  he  were  going  to  execution. 

Patty  looked  at  him.  She  thought  that  she  had  never  seen 
any  one  so  brave. 

' '  Tell  me.  How  much  must  you  have  ? ' ' 

"  I  suppose  that  eight  or  nine  hundred  would  settle  it,  since 
you  insist."  He  swept  it  all  aside  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 
" But  dismiss  the  matter  from  your  mind.  We'll  consider  it 
settled." 

"We  won't.  It  is  n't  settled."  Poor  Patty  was  having  a 
last  struggle  with  her  conscience.  It  was  really  a  hard  struggle 
and  it  took  some  time.  At  last  she  drew  a  long  shuddering 
breath.  "  Look  in  my  top  bureau  drawer,  Charlie,"  she  said, 
raising  haggard  eyes  to  his,  "in  the  front.  There's  a  check 
there  somewhere.  It's  for  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars." 

Charlie  protested.  Nevertheless,  he  moved  with  alacrity 
and  rummaged  until  he  found  the  check.  It  was  signed  by 
Richard  Torrington,  Executor.  He  presented  it  to  Patty, 
folded,  as  he  had  found  it. 

"Is  this  it,  Pat?  It  is  folded,  you  see,  so  that  it  is  im 
possible  to  know  whether  it  is  the  one  you  wanted  or  not." 

"And  to  think  that  you  would  n't  look,  Charlie!  But  I 
might  have  known  it.  I  don't  know  what  Richard  would  say," 
she  murmured.  "And  I  don't  know  what  the  carpenters 
will  do  —  the  builders.  But  never  mind.  It  is  my  own 
money,  anyway,  and  I  '11  do  what  I  like  with  it.  Charlie,"  she 
said  louder,  "you  must  take  this.  Perhaps  I  can  raise  fifty 
dollars  more  to-morrow  morning.  Do  I  have  to  write  my 
name  on  the  back?" 

Charlie  protested  again,  but  his  protests  were  fainter  than 
they  had  been.  He  must  not  overdo  it. 

Patty  had  risen  from  her  chair  and  had  gone  to  her  desk. 
"Perhaps,"  she  said  doubtfully,  "it  would  be  better  —  you 
would  rather  have  me  cash  the  check  and  give  you  the 
money."  Charlie's  protests  were  reduced  to  a  mere  murmur 
now.  "Yes,  that  will  be  better." 


290  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Charlie  looked  perplexed.  He  frowned  tremendously  and 
was  very  solemn.  He,  too,  seemed  to  be  having  a  terrible 
struggle  with  his  conscience.  It  is,  perhaps,  unnecessary  to 
say  that  he  was  n't.  Patty  watched  him  fearfully,  the  check 
clasped  to  her  bosom  and  her  eyes  pitiful.  At  last  he  heaved 
a  long,  shivering  sigh,  looked  up  and  met  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
him.  There  was  fear  in  them  and  a  great  love.  He  had  the 
grace  to  flush  faintly. 

"Am  I  to  understand,  Pat,"  he  asked  slowly,  "that  you 
insist  upon  letting  me  have  this  —  this  money?" 

"You  must  take  it,  Charlie.  You  shall  take  it,"  she  cried 
fiercely.  "Please  do." 

"We-ell,"  he  replied,  "to  please  you,  I  will,  since  you 
insist.  But  I  am  very  unwilling  to  take  it  and  I  would  n't, 
from  anybody  else.  I  only  do  it  now  on  condition  that  you 
will  regard  it  as  a  loan  which  I  will  repay  very  soon."  How? 
Did  Patty  ask  herself  that  question? 

"My  dear  boy!"  exclaimed  Patty  softly.  "My  dear  boy! 
Think  what  it  is  saving  you  from !  You  won't  have  to  go  to 
j —  Oh,  I  can't  say  it.  But  you  won't  have  to,  now,  will 
you,  Charlie?  Say  you  won't." 

"No,"  said  he,  sighing  heavily  again,  "I  guess  I  won't. 
But,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  that  is  of  very  little  conse 
quence.  It  is  you  that  I  am  thinking  of.  Mother  and  Sally 
would  n't  care,  except  as  it  would  reflect  on  them,  whether 
I  was  in  jail  or  not.  Of  course,"  he  added,  with  an  apparent 
wish  to  be  fair,  "I  may  be  doing  them  an  injustice,  but  I 
don't  think  so.  But  it  is  different  with  you.  Aside  from  the 
disgrace  which  I  should  be  bringing  down  on  your  head,  I 
think  you  would  feel  it,  for  my  sake." 

"Feel  it!"  she  murmured.  "Feel  it!  Oh,  Charlie,  dear! 
I  believe  I  should  die.  I  know  it  would  kill  me." 

Charlie  smiled  sympathetically. 

Tears  stood  in  Patty's  eyes.  "You  shall  have  eight  hun 
dred  dollars  to-morrow  morning.  I  '11  get  it  as  soon  as  the 
bank  is  open.  And  you  come  here  after  it.  Come  early, 
Charlie.  I  want  you  all  to  myself  for  a  little  while." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  291 

"Thank  you,  Pat.    I  am  very  grateful." 

She  looked  longingly  at  him ;  a  look  which  he  seemed  not 
to  see. 

"Charlie,"  she  said  softly. 

"Yes,  Pat?" 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment.  "K-kiss  me,  Charlie."  Her 
voice  was  so  low  that  he  scarcely  heard  her.  "Kiss  me, 
won't  you,  dear?" 

And  so  he  did.   That  was  the  least  he  could  do. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  blow  had  fallen.  It  had  fallen  upon  Patty.  The 
builder  had  happened  to  come  upon  Dick  in  the 
bank;  and,  being  rather  pressed  for  money,  he  had 
remarked,  half  in  joke,  upon  the  slowness  of  the  payments 
from  the  Hazen  estate.  Whereat  Dick,  very  much  surprised 
but  trying  not  to  show  it,  had  asked  for  particulars  which  the 
builder  was  very  willing  to  supply;  and  the  matter  having 
been  sifted  to  the  bottom,  so  far  as  the  builder  was  concerned, 
Dick  had,  then  and  there,  given  him  a  check  for  all  that  was 
owing  him,  which  was  greatly  to  the  builder's  gratification 
and  as  it  should  be. 

If  the  matter  was  sifted  to  the  bottom,  so  far  as  the  builder 
was  concerned,  it  was  very  far  from  that  satisfactory  con 
dition  so  far  as  Patty  was  concerned.  Dick  went  to  see 
Patty  and  asked  her,  as  delicately  and  gently  as  was  at  all 
consistent  with  getting  the  information  that  he  wanted, 
what  had  become  of  the  checks  which  he  had  sent  her,  from 
time  to  time?  Where  had  the  money  gone  which  was  in 
tended  for  the  builder?  But  Patty  stood  by  her  guns  and 
would  not  tell.  They  might  suspect,  but  they  should  not 
know  —  from  her.  She  insisted  that  it  was  her  money,  that 
her  father  had  meant  it  for  her,  and  she  would  use  it  as  she 
pleased  without  being  accountable  to  anybody. 

Dick,  patient,  pleasant,  but  insistent,  was  unable  to  get 
anything  more  out  of  her,  try  as  he  would,  and  he  had  been 
forced  to  go  away  again,  baffled  and  no  wiser  than  he  was 
when  he  came,  except  that  it  was  evident  that  the  money 
had  been  applied  to  some  purpose  which  Patty  wished  to 
conceal.  He  was  satisfied  that  it  had  not  been  applied  to  her 
personal  use.  Indeed,  it  was  incredible  that  she  could  have 
used  so  much  without  having  anything  to  show  for  it,  unless 
she  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  one  of  those  sharpers  who 


CONCERNING  SALLY  293 

supply  trusting  women  with  the  stocks  and  bonds  of  mytho 
logical  mines  guaranteed  to  produce  a  return  of  three  hun 
dred  per  cent  a  year.  Even  in  that  case,  Miss  Patty  might 
have  shown  him  the  beautiful  examples  of  the  engraver's 
art  with  which  the  aforesaid  corporations  reward  their 
victims. 

No,  such  a  condition  was  not  probable.  It  was  much  more 
likely  that  Charlie  Ladue  had  got  it.  And  because  he  was 
morally  certain  of  the  use  to  which  the  money  had  been  put 
—  as  far  as  Patty  was  concerned  —  he  was  careful  not  to 
say  anything  of  his  suspicions  to  anybody.  He  did  not  wish 
them  to  get  to  Sally's  ears;  not  until  they  were  something 
more  than  suspicions,  at  least.  Supposing  that  Charlie  had 
received  the  money,  what  had  he  done  with  it? 

So  Dick  said  nothing,  but  he  drew  the  lines  tighter  and 
made  his  authority  felt.  What  else  could  he  do?  What  was 
his  clear  duty?  It  was  to  be  presumed  that  Mr.  Hazen  had 
had  such  a  condition  clearly  in  mind  when  he  drew  his  will. 
So  Patty  found  herself  with  no  more,  at  her  immediate  com 
mand,  than  her  allowance,  which  Dick  intimated  would  be 
made  any  reasonable  amount  that  she  wished;  but  all  of 
her  bills  must  be  sent  to  him  for  payment.  He  thought  it 
the  part  of  wisdom  to  write  this. 

The  state  of  mind  into  which  Patty  was  thrown  by  this 
letter  may  be  imagined.  "The  insolent  puppy!"  she  cried, 
sitting  alone  in  her  room.  It  was  rather  a  strong  epithet  to 
apply  to  Dick  Torrington,  who  never  in  his  life  had  been 
anything  but  kind  and  protecting.  But  people  seldom  wish 
to  be  protected  against  themselves.  "  Upstart ! "  That,  Dick 
certainly  was  not.  "Why,  that  means  that  I  can't  pay  my 
own  board.  And  Miss  Miller  will  think  —  I  don't  know 
what  she  will  think,  but  the  whole  town  will  know  about  it." 
Her  face  crimsoned  with  mortification.  She  thought  deeply 
for  some  time.  "I  know  what  I'll  do,"  she  said  to  herself 
with  determination  when  she  had  come  to  an  end  of  her 
thinking,  which,  by  the  way,  she  seldom  did;  not  to  any 
logical  end.  "I  know  what  I'll  do.  I  will  go  right  out  to 


294  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Doctor  Sanderson's.  He  won't  talk.  It's  a  little  early  to  go 
into  the  country,  but  I  need  a  change." 

So  Patty  was  quite  cheerful,  for  the  time  being,  while  she 
arranged  the  change  which  she  needed  so  badly.  Miss  Miller 
was  less  cheerful  and  allowed  herself  to  remark  that  per 
haps  it  was  just  as  well,  as  Patty  did  n't  seem  to  be  able  to 
pay  her  bills  promptly;  able  or  willing,  she  didn't  know 
which  and  it  did  n't  matter  much  which  it  was,  as  far  as 
she  could  see.  But  she  might  have  stayed  her  season  out,  now 
that  Dick  Torrington  was  willing  to  undertake  the  job  of 
looking  after  her,  and  a  thankless  job  it  was,  as  she,  Mary 
Miller,  could  bear  witness.  And  thereupon  Miss  Mary  Miller 
turned  her  back  upon  Miss  Patty  and  flounced  out  of  the 
room  before  Patty  should  make  any  suitable  reply. 

Miss  Miller  need  not  have  hurried  out  of  the  room,  for 
Patty  was  too  much  astonished  to  think  of  any  fitting  reply 
for  some  time.  She  sat  with  her  mouth  open  —  a  sight  which 
it  is  to  be  presumed  Miss  Miller  would  have  been  glad  to 
see  —  with  her  mouth  open,  which  was  very  unusual  for 
Miss  Patty,  and  with  her  cheerfulness  quite  gone,  which  was 
not  at  all  unusual.  After  a  few  minutes  she  remembered  to 
close  her  mouth,  but  she  did  not  resume  her  cheerfulness. 
So  Miss  Miller  knew,  after  all.  Patty  wondered,  vaguely, 
how  she  had  found  out.  She  did  not  suspect  Dick,  for 
Dick  had  a  talent  for  keeping  his  own  counsel.  She  could 
not  guess,  although  she  had  tried,  goodness  knew!  And 
Patty  heaved  a  long  sigh  and  gave  it  up.  Then,  if  Mary 
Miller  knew,  Letty  Lambkin  knew,  and  one  could  be  sure 
that  everybody  in  town,  of  her  acquaintance  who  would 
listen  to  her,  would  know,  too. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Letty  Lambkin  was  bursting  with 
information.  She  went  to  Mrs.  Upjohn's  early  that  year, 
ostensibly  to  make  that  lady  some  summer  clothes,  but 
really  because  Mrs.  Upjohn  let  her  talk  freely;  I  would  n't 
say  that  Mrs.  Upjohn  encouraged  her  to  talk,  for  Letty 
did  not  need  any  actual  encouragement.  But  she  let  her 
talk,  freely,  and  that  was  equivalent  to  encouragement. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  295 

"Alicia,"  Letty  began,  almost  as  soon  as  she  had  got  in 
side  the  door,  "I  s'pose  you  know  about  poor  Patty.  It's 
the  common  talk."  Mrs.  Upjohn  had  no  chance  to  reply. 
"  Dick  Torrington  's  taken  it  upon  himself  to  manage  her  af 
fairs,  and  all  Patty  has  is  her  allowance.  But  of  course  you 
know  that.  It  seems  rather  a  high-handed  thing  for  Dick  to 
do,  and  he  only  a  little  tow-headed  shaver  when  Patty  was 
a  grown  woman.  I  suppose  he  has  the  right  to  do  it,  or  else 
he  would  n't.  I  'm  told  that  Patty  was  getting  into  a  terri 
ble  mess  with  her  property.  She  used  the  checks  that  were 
meant  for  the  builder  for  another  purpose,  I  hear.  Poor 
Mr.  Means!  And  Mary  Miller  had  to  wait,  too." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  laughed  comfortably.  "  I  guess  Charlie  Ladue 
could  tell  something  about  those  checks." 

"Like  enough  he  could,"  said  Miss  Lambkin,  preparing 
to  go  to  work.  "Where's  your  cloth,  Alicia?  Oh,  in  your 
room?  Don't  you  stir.  I'll  get  it."  She  came  back  immedi 
ately.  "Well,  as  I  was  saying,  it 's  really  too  bad  that  Patty's 
mind  is  giving  way." 

"Her  mind  giving  way!"  echoed  Mrs.  Upjohn,  surprised 
out  of  her  usual  caution.  "Oh,  I  guess  not.  Who  told  you 
that,  Letty?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Lambkin  with  a  toss  of  her  head. 
"  Didn't  you  know  that  she 's  been  sent  out  to  Doctor  San 
derson's  Home  for  Incurables?  Dick  sent  her  out  there 
nearly  a  month  ago.  She 's  as  comfortable  there  as  could  be 
expected.  I  have  it  on  the  best  of  authority  —  some  one 
connected  with  the  institution,"  she  added  with  a  nod  and  a 
knowing  look. 

Mrs.  Upjohn  laughed  again.  "I  can't  believe  it,  Letty. 
You  must  have  been  misinformed.  In  the  first  place,  Doc 
tor  Sanderson's  place  is  n't  a  home  for  incurables." 

"  I  know  he  does  n't  call  it  that.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  can't 
find  out  just  what  he  does  call  it." 

"Can't  your  best  of  authority  tell  you  that,  too?"  asked 
Mrs.  Upjohn  slyly. 

"Now,  Alicia,"  said  Miss  Lambkin  with  asperity,  "you 


296  CONCERNING  SALLY 

need  n't  go  to  calling  in  question  my  authority.  It  was  one 
of  the  nurses,  if  you  must  know." 

"Doctor  Sanderson  wouldn't  thank  her  for  talking  so 
freely,"  remarked  Mrs.  Upjohn.  "I  should  really  like  to 
know  what  he  would  say  about  Patty.  I  understood  that 
she  had  simply  gone  there  to  board." 

"I  suppose  she  can  call  it  that,  but  I  don't  believe  that 
Doctor  Sanderson  is  running  a  boarding-house  or  a  hotel 
either.  I  always  thought  that  she  was  bound  for  the  asylum. 
And,  another  thing,  I  had  it  from  the  same  authority  that 
Meriwether  Beatty  goes  to  see  her  regularly  once  or  twice 
a  week,  and  he 's  real  kind,  too.  I  leave  it  to  you  whether  that 
is  n't  a  sign  that  he  thinks  her  mind  is  growing  feeble.  He 
always  used  to  say  the  most  brutal  things." 

"  I  should  say  it  was  rather  a  sign  that  Doctor  Beatty  was 
losing  his  mind  than  that  Patty  was  losing  hers,"  rejoined 
Mrs.  Upjohn. 

"Well,"  said  Letty  with  an  air  of  finality,  "you  just  wait 
and  see  if  I  'm  not  right." 

"I  will,"  said  Mrs.  Upjohn. 

Miss  Lambkin  glanced  at  her  smiling  face  and  thought  it 
best  to  change  the  subject. 

" Dick  Torrington,"  she  observed,  "is  going  to  be  married 
to  that  Henrietta  girl.  But  I  suppose  you  know." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Upjohn. 

"I  understood,"  Miss  Lambkin  resumed,  "that  the  wed 
ding  was  to  be  the  last  of  June." 

"The  twenty-eighth,"  said  Mrs.  Upjohn. 

"Oh,"  rejoined  Miss  Lambkin,  somewhat  taken  aback  by 
Mrs.  Upjohn's  ready  replies.  "And  I  understood  that  Hen 
rietta  was  coming  on  here  to  visit  right  away." 

"She  came  last  night,"  said  Mrs.  Upjohn. 

"To  visit  with  Sally,  I  suppose?"  Letty  was  consumed 
with  curiosity  as  to  the  source  of  Mrs.  Upjohn's  accurate  in 
formation.  She  always  liked  to  be  the  source  herself. 

"She  is  the  guest  of  Mrs.  Torrington,"  said  Mrs.  Up 
john,  raising  her  eyes  at  last. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  297 

"Dear  me,  Alicia,"  Letty  exclaimed  impatiently,  "how 
you  do  snap  a  person  up!  I  suppose  that  was  why  Dick 
was  grinning  so  like  a  monkey  when  I  saw  him  yesterday 
afternoon." 

"Because  I  snap  a  person  up?" 

"  Because  Henrietta  was  coming.  He  seemed  to  be  on  his 
way  to  the  station." 

"  Possibly.  He  did  n't  tell  me  the  reason.  But  Henrietta 
did  n't  come  until  nearly  ten  o'clock." 

"Well!"  The  discomfited  Letty  devoted  herself  to  her 
work  for  some  minutes  in  silence.  But  she  could  not  keep 
silent  long.  "So  Dick  gave  you  all  that  information,  I  sup 
pose.  I  wondered  how  you  got  it  all  so  pat." 

"No,"  returned  Mrs.  Upjohn  calmly.  "I  haven't  seen 
Dick,  to  speak  to,  for  a  good  while." 

Miss  Lambkin  laid  down  her  work.  "Well,  Alicia,"  she 
said  slowly,  "will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  how  you 
found  out  all  that  —  right  up  to  last  night?" 

"Better  than  that,  Letty,"  Mrs.  Upjohn  replied.  "I 
know  what  happened  this  morning,  about  half  past  seven." 

"They  ate  their  breakfast,  I  suppose,"  snapped  Letty. 
"I  could  have  told  you  that." 

"They  didn't  have  breakfast  until  eight,"  said  Mrs. 
Upjohn. 

"Oh,  Lord!"  cried  Miss  Lambkin  in  utter  disgust.  She 
had  been  tried  beyond  the  bounds  of  reason. 

Mrs.  Upjohn  laughed  until  the  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 
"As  to  my  information,  Letty,"  she  said  as  soon  as  she  could 
speak,  "I  pick  it  up  here  and  there,  and  I  use  my  eyes." 

"As  much  as  to  say  that  you  give  a  good  guess.  I  thought 
I  was  pretty  good  at  picking  up  information.  But  you  have 
me  beat,  Alicia,  I'm  free  to  confess." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  made  no  reply. 

"  It 's  rather  a  pity  that  Dick  did  n't  choose  nearer  home," 
Miss  Lambkin  resumed,  after  pausing  long  enough  for  the 
reply  which  did  not  come.  "There's  Sally,  now." 

"They'd  have  made  a  good  match,"  Mrs.  Upjohn  ob- 


298  CONCERNING  SALLY 

served,  sighing  reminiscently,  "but  there's  no  accounting 
for  tastes  in  such  matters." 

"Meaning  Everett?"  asked  Letty,  looking  up  sharply. 

Mrs.  Upjohn  shook  her  head.    "Not  especially." 

"I  suppose  you  know,"  said  Miss  Lambkin  pointedly, 
"with  your  sources  of  accurate  information,  that  he's  hang 
ing  around  again.  There  was  a  time  when  it  seemed  to  be  all 
off  for  a  few  weeks." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  nodded. 

"There  are  some  cases  where  you  can't  even  give  a  good 
guess,"  Letty  continued  maliciously.  "Aren't  there, 
Alicia?" 

Mrs.  Upjohn  nodded  again;  but  she  only  rocked  gently 
and  said  nothing. 

Miss  Lambkin  seemed  to  be  following  out  a  train  of 
thought,  but  in  silence.  That  was  not  her  custom.  She 
usually  pursued  thought  with  a  wild  halloa. 

Presently  she  gave  a  sort  of  a  cackle,  which  with  her  did 
duty  for  a  chuckle  of  amusement.  "  I  'd  give  something  to 
have  seen  Charlie  Ladue  when  he  first  heard  of  Patty's  fix. 
I  '11  warrant  he  did  n't  like  it.  I  wonder  whether  Sally  knows. 
It  seems  to  me  that  she  ought  to  be  told." 

"Told  what,  Letty?  A  pack  of  stories  that  are  no  more 
than  guessing?  And  who 's  to  tell  her?  When  we  know  any 
thing  about  Charlie  it  '11  be  time  enough  to  be  thinking  about 
telling  Sally." 

"All  the  same, "Letty  pursued  obstinately,  "Sally  ought 
to  know." 

"Humph!"  said  Mrs.  Upjohn. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

HENRIETTA  sat  on  the  edge  of  Sally's  bed,  swinging 
her  little  feet,  which  hardly  touched  the  floor,  — 
she  had  only  to  raise  the  tips  and  they  swung  clear, 
—  and  she  was  as  smiling,  as  pretty,  as  dainty,  as  inconse 
quent,  and  as  charming  as  ever.  At  least,  Sally  seemed  to 
find  her  charming  and  so,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  did  Dick. 
Sally,  with  a  little  smile  upon  her  lips,  leaned  against  the 
window  casing  and  looked  at  her.  She  feasted  her  eyes; 
she  looked  so  long  and  she  stared  so  hard  that  Henrietta 
dammed,  for  a  moment,  the  stream  of  talk  that  flowed  from 
her  lips  and  flushed  a  little,  faintly. 

"What's  the  matter,  Sally?  I  know  my  hair 's  in  a  mess. 
Is  there  anything  wrong  with  my  dress?  Have  I  got  a  dirty 
face?  I  washed  it,  but  if  there  is  a  smudge  on  my  nose  I 
think  it  is  the  part  of  a  friend  to  tell  me  and  not  let  me  go 
out  looking  like  a  fright." 

Sally  shook  her  head  slowly.  "There 's  nothing  the  matter, 
Henrietta.  I  was  only  thinking  what  a  lucky  man  Dick  is." 

The  flush  on  Henrietta's  face  deepened.  "Oh,  do  you 
think  so,  Sally?"  she  asked  softly.  "Do  you  really  think 
so?  I  was  a  little  bit  afraid  you  didn't  approve.  And  how 
about  me?  Don't  you  think  I 'm  a  lucky  girl?" 

"Very,"  answered  Sally,  smiling  still.  "Dick  is  every 
thing  that 's  good.  He 's  the  one  best  man  for  you.  But  why 
did  you  think  that  I  might  not  approve?" 

"  We-11,"  said  Henrietta  with  some  hesitation,  bending  for 
ward  to  look  at  her  swinging  feet,  then  looking  up  at  Sally, 
"I  —  I  went  after  him  in  such  a  barefaced  manner,  and  you 
knew  it."  Sally  shook  her  head  again.  "Oh,  yes,  you  did. 
It 's  no  use  to  shake  your  gory  locks  at  me.  You  knew  I  did ; 
the  very  night  of  your  fire.  I  don't  deny  it.  I  did  go  after 


300  CONCERNING  SALLY 

him  with  all  my  might  and  I  got  him."  She  spoke  trium 
phantly.  "I'm  glad  I  went  after  him,  for  —  for  I  never 
should  have  got  him  at  all  if  I  had  not.  I  'm  proud  of  it,  but 
I  don't  advertise  it,  generally.  I  confess  it  to  you,  but  I 
should  deny  the  fact  to  anybody  else.  Wild  horses  should  n't 
drag  it  out  of  me.  Not  ever !  And  then,  Sally,  another  reason 
why  I  was  a  little  afraid  you  would  n't  approve  — "  Henri 
etta  hesitated  again,  stopped,  and  once  more  regarded  her 
feet. 

"Well?"  Sally  asked,  amused. 

"Well."  Henrietta  looked  up  and  smiled.  "To  tell  the 
truth,  I  could  n't  believe  that  you  did  n't  want  him  your 
self.  There!  It's  out.  Just  a  little,  Sally." 

Sally  laughed.  "Not  even  just  a  little,  Henrietta.  Dick 
is  a  dear  friend  —  he  has  been  that  to  me  always,  ever  since 
his  kite  and  Everett 's  broke  my  foot  —  and  I  hope  he  al 
ways  will  be ;  but  the  idea  of  falling  in  love  with  each  other 
never  entered  either  of  our  heads.  So  you  may  be  quite  easy 
in  your  mind.  My  heart  is  n't  even  bent." 

"  But  you  know,"  Henrietta  insisted,  "that  you  could  have 
got  him  if  you  had  tried  as  hard  as  I  did." 

"  I  guess  not,"  Sally  replied ;  "not  afteryou  appeared,  any 
way.  You  need  n't  distress  yourself.  I  remember  that  I  used 
to  look  upon  Dick  and  Everett  with  adoration,  as  a  little 
girl.  They  were  my  ideals.  When  they  carried  me  home, 
after  the  kite  accident,  I  was  in  the  seventh  heaven.  But 
there  was  nothing,  even  then.  No,  Dick  is  all  yours,  as  far 
as  I  am  concerned." 

Henrietta  breathed  a  sigh.  "Well,  I  'm  glad  to  be  sure  of 
it.  But,  Sally,"  she  continued,  with  a  doubtful  glance,  as  if 
she  were  a  little  afraid  of  Sally  and  of  what  she  was  about  to 
ask,  "how  about  Everett?  Was  there  ever  — ?" 

Sally  laughed  again  suddenly.  "No,  there  was  n't.  Ever 
ett  never  looked  at  me." 

"But,  Sally,"  Henrietta  persisted,  "it  isn't  so  now. 
Does  he  —  you  are  n't  engaged,  are  you,  Sally?"  she  asked 
softly,  glancing  up  timidly  under  her  long  lashes. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  301 

Sally  seemed  to  be  in  haste  to  reply.  "Oh,  no,"  she  said. 
' '  Oh ,  no.  I  am  not  likely  to  be.  I  suppose  you  mean  Everett . ' ' 

"Yes,  I  did,"  returned  Henrietta.  She  showed  some  sur 
prise.  "Why?  Is  there  anybody  else?" 

"No,  oh,  no,"  Sally  answered  more  hastily  than  before. 
"  There  is  n't.  As  far  as  I  can  see,  I  am  scheduled  to  teach 
for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

"Are  you  quite  sure,  Sally?"  Henrietta  urged.  "Isn't 
there  anybody?  Not  even  somebody  that  you  wish  — " 

Sally  was  getting  rather  red.  "No,  no,  Henrietta," she 
said,  interrupting.  "Now  that's  enough  about  my  affairs 
of  the  heart.  It's  a  little  embarrassing  to  be  questioned  so 
closely,  dear." 

"I'm  sure  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sally,"  cried  Henrietta  im 
pulsively.  "  I  did  n't  mean  to  be.  Now,  /  am  just  dying  to 
be  questioned  closely.  Try  me." 

"I  don't  know  what  to  ask,"  said  Sally,  smiling.  "I 
would  if  I  did." 

Henrietta  sighed.  "You're  very  disappointing,  Sally. 
If  you  were  really  interested  you  would  know."  She  sighed 
again.  "But,  anyway,  you'll  be  what  I  want  you  to  be  at 
my  wedding,  won't  you?" 

"Indeed,  I  will.  I'll  be  anything  you  want  me  to  be." 
She  laughed  a  little.  "But  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  need 
coaching.  What  do  I  have  to  do?" 

"Nothing  much.  You'll  have  all  the  coaching  you  need. 
You  know  it 's  going  to  be  at  Fox's  house.  He 's  going  to  open 
it  for  the  occasion." 

"Only  for  the  occasion?"  Sally  spoke  coldly;  so  coldly 
that  her  voice  did  not  sound  natural.  "I  rather  gathered, 
from  a  remark  that  he  made  a  while  ago,  that  he  contem 
plated  matrimony,  too." 

"Fox  get  married?"  Henrietta  was  genuinely  surprised. 
"Well,  it's  news  to  me.  Who's  to  be  my  sister-in-law?  Did 
he  say?" 

Sally  shook  her  head.  "I  supposed  it  was  probably 
Margaret  Savage." 


302  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Oh!"  cried  Henrietta.  "I  hope  not."  Then  she  seemed 
to  be  ashamed  of  her  outburst  and  sat,  swinging  her  feet  and 
looking  wistfully  at  Sally.  "I  had  hoped,"  she  observed  at 
last,  "that,  when  Fox's  time  came,  it  would  be — "  She 
stopped  and  considered.  "I  hoped  that  it  would  be  —  not 
Margaret  Savage,  Sally." 

Sally  made  no  reply. 

"Margaret  Savage  is  so  —  so  empty,  you  see,"  Henrietta 
went  on.  "She  would  not  be  exhilarating.  But  I  won't  say 
any  more  about  her." 

"It  is  n't  really  necessary,"  Sally  returned,  laughing. 

"And  the  less  said  the  better,"  Henrietta  concluded.  "I 
don't  know  why,  but  it  reminds  me  of  your  Cousin  Patty. 
Dick  has  n't  told  me  much  of  anything,"  Henrietta  lowered 
her  voice.  "Do  you  suppose  it  is  true  that  she  is  losing  her 
mind?" 

"Did  Dick  tell  you  that?"  asked  Sally,  startled. 

Henrietta  shook  her  head.    "I  heard  it  talked  about." 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  think  so.  She  gets  queerer  and  more 
cranky  every  year.  She  has  changed  a  good  deal  since  Uncle 
John  died.  Poor  Patty!  She  has  very  little  comfort  in  life 
—  except  Charlie."  Sally  laughed  shortly.  "I  hope  she  finds 
him  a  comfort." 

Henrietta  did  not  know  what  to  say.  Consequently  she 
said  nothing,  which  was,  no  doubt,  just  the  right  thing. 

"Charlie  will  be  home  to-morrow,"  Sally  added;  then  she 
corrected  herself.  "I  should  have  said  that  Charlie  is  due 
to-morrow.  He  may  not  come." 

"Oh,  Sally!"  Henrietta  cried.  "What  makes  you  speak 
so?  It  —  it  sounds  horrible." 

"It's  the  simple  fact,  Henrietta." 

"Why  don't  you  do  something  about  it?   I  would." 

Sally  gave  a  little  shrug.  "What  would  you  do?  There  is 
nothing  to  be  done.  Charlie 's  a  headstrong  boy  and  he  seems 
to  have  slipped  away  altogether  from  mother's  control. 
Patty  indulges  him  and  I  don't  see  how  I  can  do  anything.  If 
he  had  really  done  any  thing  wrong  and  I  knew  it,  it  would  be 


CONCERNING  SALLY  303 

a  different  matter.  I  don't  know  that  he  has  —  but,"  she 
added  in  a  low  voice,  "I  don't  know  that  he  has  n't." 

Henrietta  chanced  to  glance  at  the  watch  upon  her  wrist. 
"Oh,  mercy  me ! "  she  cried,  springing  to  her  feet.  "  I  did  n't 
know  it  was  so  late.  I  've  got  to  meet  Dick  in  five  minutes. 
Good-bye,  Sally." 

Henrietta  was  gone,  running  down  the  stairs.  She  need 
not  have  hurried  so,  for  Dick  was  late.  He  was  so  late  that 
she  had  become  hotly  impatient  and  then  angry  with  him. 
Indeed,  she  was  just  going  away,  hurt  and  angry,  when  Dick 
appeared,  hurrying  as  if  he  were  pursued  by  devils  and 
smiling  propitiatingly. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  to  be  so  late,  Henrietta,"  he  began. 
"  I  simply  could  not  get  away  from  those  two  bores.  I  came 
just  as  soon  as  I  could  without  throwing  them  out  of  the 
office." 

Henrietta's  anger  was  dissolved  like  a  morning  mist. 
"Who  was  it,  Dick?" 

"The  Carling  twins.  It  took  them  a  long  time  to  say  what 
they  wanted  to,  for  you  know  they  still  stutter." 

"I've  never  seen  them,  although  I've  heard  of  them. 
What  were  they  trying  to  say?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  so  afraid  of 
being  late  that  I  did  n't  'pay  as  much  attention  as  I  ought 
to  have." 

This  confession  would  have  been  a  great  comfort  to  the 
Carlings,  for  they  had  taken  especial  pains  and  made  this 
trip  for  the  sole  purpose  of  seeing  Dick.  What  they  had  to 
say  concerned  Charlie  Ladue.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that 
they  would  be  so  concerned  about  the  acts  of  Charlie  La- 
due,  if  he  were  the  only  one.  But  his  acts  would  involve  Sally, 
sooner  or  later,  and,  so  long  as  that  was  inevitable,  it  had 
better  be  sooner.  In  fact,  the  sooner  the  better.  And,  each 
of  the  Carlings  knowing  a  thing  or  two,  as  was  to  be  expected 
of  them,  they  had  had  a  long  deliberation  on  the  subject, 
only  the  night  before. 

"S — s — ssomeb — b — body    ought    t — to     kn — n — now 


304  CONCERNING  SALLY 

ab — bout  it,"  Harry  observed.  "I  w — w — wouldn't 
b — bother  m — myself  ab — b — out  wh — wh — what  t — that 
1 — 1 — lemon  of  a  k — kid  d — did  'f — f  it  w — was  n't  for  S — 
S — Sally.  D — d — don't  1 — like  t — to  b — be  the  one  t — to 
t — tell  on  h — h — him,  b — but  wh — wh — who  d — does? 
Wh — wh — who'll  we  t — tell?  Th — that's  the  q — q — ques 
tion." 

"C— c— can't  t— tell  S—S— Sally,"  Horry  remarked. 

"C — c — course  we  c — c — can't,"  Harry  replied  scorn 
fully.  "An— ny  f— f — fool  'd  kn— n— now  th— that." 

"N — n — nor  P — P — Patty,"  Horry  remarked  further. 

They  both  grinned.  Harry  did  not  think  the  observa 
tion  worthy  of  a  reply. 

"  M— m— might  t— tell  D—D— Doc— Doc— tor  S— S— 
San — n —  damn  it.  You  kn — now." 

Harry  nodded.  He  did  not  care  to  try  the  name.  They  both 
knew.  "N — no,"  he  said. 

"  D — D — Dick?  "  The  name  came  from  Kerry's  lips  with 
the  force  of  an  explosion. 

"D — D — Dick's  n — no  g — good,"  Harry  replied  gloom 
ily.  "G — goin'  t — to  be  m — m — married  'n  a  1 — little 
m — more'n  a  w — w — week." 

They  both  relapsed  into  silence. 

After  some  minutes  of  silence,  Horry  heaved  a  sigh. 
"  N— n— no  use,"  he  said.  "  It 's  D—D— Dick.  C—c— can't 
th — think  of  an — nybody  else.  I  'm  g — g — goin'  d — down 
to — m — m — morrow.  C — c — come  b — back  s — same  d — 
day;  '11—11—11  y— you  go?" 

Harry  nodded.  "'R — r — right,"  he  said.  The  Carlings 
were  to  graduate  within  a  week,  which  explains  their  anxiety 
to  get  back. 

Horry  rose.  Their  deliberations  were  ended .  ' '  Th — that 
d — d — damned  f — f — fool  m — m — must  ha — ha — have 
d — dropped  m — m — more'n  f — f — fif — f — teen  hundred 
'n  n — number  s — s — seven  th — th — this  y — year.  I  w — won 
der  wh — wh — whose?" 

Horry's  information  was  surprisingly  accurate. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  305 

"G— guess  it's  P — P — Patty's,"  Harry  observed. 

Accordingly  they  went  down  to  see  Dick.  Their  story  was 
shot  off  at  him  in  little  puffs,  like  a  bunch  of  firecrackers. 
Dick,  being  diverted  by  the  manner  of  telling  and  being 
much  concerned  about  his  engagement  with  Henrietta,  did 
not  take  it  all  in,  perhaps,  and  if  he  forgot  all  about  it  during 
the  next  ten  days,  he  is  to  be  excused. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

HENRIETTA'S  wedding  was  rather  a  quiet  one,  as  wed 
dings  went  in  Whitby.  That  is,  there  were  not  many 
more  people  there  than  the  old  cream-colored  house 
could  accommodate  comfortably,  so  that  the  overflow  would 
not  have  more  than  half  rilled  the  yard;  which  was  lucky, 
as  the  yard  was  already  nearly  half  full  of  automobiles  and 
carriages,  tightly  packed  by  the  wall.  There  was  a  long  string 
of  them  in  the  road,  too.  But  as  it  was  a  lovely  summer  day, 
the  first  really  warm  day  of  the  summer,  and  as  the  birds 
were  singing  madly  in  the  orchard  as  though  they  knew  it 
was  a  very  special  occasion  and  one  to  be  celebrated  ac 
cordingly,  and  as  the  orchard  was  a  very  inviting  place  with 
a  gentle  breeze  rustling  the  leaves  of  the  apple  trees,  and  as 
the  view  over  the  little  valley  was  more  attractive  than  the 
most  beautiful  interior  of  old  houses,  and  as  —  well,  without 
continuing  the  catalogue  of  reasons,  the  people  gradually 
drifted  outside,  two  at  a  time.  They  formed  a  cluster  around 
the  well-sweep ;  a  cluster  whose  composition  was  continually 
changing.  Having  given  as  much  voice  to  their  admiration 
of  the  well-sweep  as  they  thought  was  expected  of  them,  they 
wandered  on  and  scattered  and  drew  together  into  other 
groups  and  scattered  again;  and  by  a  repetition  of  this  pro 
cess  little  clusters  were  formed,  at  last,  that  had  no  tendency 
to  scatter. 

There  were  two  groups  in  particular  whose  composition 
was  changing,  even  yet,  and  changing  very  rapidly.  They 
were,  for  all  the  world,  like  swarms  of  ants,  the  component 
individuals  continually  coming  and  going  like  ants  which 
were  very  busy  and  very  intent  on  their  business.  These  in 
dividuals  would  hurry  up  and  join  the  group  at  its  outer 
edge,  and  push  and  struggle  to  get  to  the  centre,  while  others 


CONCERNING  SALLY  307 

seemed  equally  eager  to  get  out.  So  that  there  was  a  con 
tinual  movement  and  jostling.  But  if  you  could  have  looked 
into  the  centre  of  either  of  these  groups,  you  would  have 
seen  —  no,  not  the  bride ;  you  would  have  seen  either  a 
great  bowl  of  punch  or  a  table  loaded  with  good  things,  or 
their  remains  —  no  more  than  the  wrecks  of  things.  As  to 
the  bride,  she  had  slipped  away. 

There  was  another  group  which  had  formed  after  the 
manner  of  these  stable  groups  already  mentioned,  and  which 
had  somewhat  withdrawn  itself  to  the  very  back  edge  of 
the  orchard,  away  from  the  others.  The  members  of  this 
group  were  not  concerning  themselves  with  the  punch  or 
with  the  things  to  eat  or  with  the  ants  coming  and  going  so 
continuously,  but  they  talked  together  in  low  voices  as  if 
they  would  escape  observation.  They  were  Sally  and  Fox 
and  Mrs.  Ladue;  but  they  could  not  hope  to  escape  for  long. 
And  Fox  was  somewhat  serious,  which  is  not  to  be  won 
dered  at,  he  having  just  lost  a  sister,  if  you  care  to  look  at  it 
in  that  way.  And  Sally  was  rather  serious,  too,  which  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at,  for  she  had  just  lost  a  friend,  however  you 
prefer  to  look  at  it.  Mrs.  Ladue  was  the  only  one  of  that 
group  who  looked  other  than  serious  and  solemn,  and  there 
was,  even  in  her  look,  something  lacking  to  a  perfect  joy, 
for  a  person  who  cared  enough  to  find  it  might  have  discov 
ered  something  wistful  there.  It  was  as  if  she  wanted  some 
thing  very  much  and  knew  that  she  could  not  get  it.  I  leave 
it  to  you  whether  any  person  can  be  in  that  state  of  mind  and 
be  perfectly  joyful.  What  it  was  that  she  wanted  I  do  not 
know  nor  why  she  could  not  get  it;  although,  if  the  thing  con 
cerned  those  other  two,  the  only  reason  that  she  could  not 
get  it  was  that  they  were  both  as  blind  as  bats  —  blinder 
than  bats. 

Sally  was  silent,  gazing  away  at  the  deep  woods  behind 
them.  Her  mother  gazed  wistfully  at  Sally  and  said  nothing 
either.  And  Fox  looked  at  them  and  was  as  silent  as  they. 
Some  one  came  up  and  exchanged  a  few  words  with  Fox  and 
went  away  again;  but  neither  Mrs.  Ladue  nor  Sally  said 


3o8  CONCERNING  SALLY 

anything.  Sally  was  still  gazing  off  at  the  woods  and  seemed 
to  be  unaware  of  any  new  presence. 

"Sally,"  said  Fox. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him,  but  still  she  said  no 
thing. 

"Did  n't  you  know  who  that  was?" 

She  shook  her  head.    "Who  what  was?" 

"The  man  who  spoke  to  me?  But  I  suppose  you  did  n't 
know  that  anybody  spoke  to  me.  It  was  Horry  Carling." 

"Oh,  was  it?"   She  did  not  seem  interested. 

"He  seemed  to  want  to  speak  to  you." 

•"Well,  why  did  n't  he?" 

"Probably  because  you  did  n't  seem  to  see  him.  Is  there 
anything  the  matter,  Sally?" 

Sally  smiled  very  slightly  and  very  soberly.  "Nothing 
much.  Nothing  worth  mentioning." 

They  relapsed  into  silence  again,  but  after  a  while  Sally 
spoke. 

"Would  you  —  would  you  be  much  disappointed,  Fox," 
she  asked,  without  looking  at  him,  "if  I  gave  up  teaching? 
Would  it  seem  as  if  I  were  throwing  away  all  these  years  of 
preparation?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  meeting  her  serious  mood,  "I  don't 
see  that  it  would.  And  I  don't  see  that  it  matters  to  any 
body  but  yourself  just  when  you  give  it  up.  There  is  no 
reason,  now,  for  your  keeping  on  with  it  unless  you  want  to. 
You  will  have  to  give  it  up  soon  anyway." 

Sally  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  "Why,  Fox?  Why  will 
I  have  to?" 

Fox  evaded  this  question  for  the  time,  at  any  rate.  "Why 
have  you  thought  of  giving  it  up  now,  Sally?  Do  the  poor 
kids  prove  too  trying?" 

Sally  nodded.  "  I  am  ashamed  of  it.  I  'm  not  fitted  for  it. 
I  have  n't  patience  enough  —  with  stupidity.  But  what 
did  you  mean  by  saying  that  I  would  have  to  give  it  up 
soon?" 

"Why,"  Fox  replied,  casting  an  embarrassed  glance  in 


CONCERNING  SALLY  309 

Mrs.  Ladue's  direction,  "when  you  are  married,  you 
know  — ' ' 

"Oh,"  Sally  cried  with  a  quick  and  vivid  blush  —  a  rush 
of  blood  to  the  head,  no  less,  —  "oh,  but  I  shan't.  I  never 
shall." 

Mrs.  Ladue  appeared  to  think  it  a  fitting  time  to  slip  away 
quietly. 

"  I  did  n't  mean, "-Sally  went  on  rapidly,  "to  be  idle.  I  — 
well,  to  tell  you  a  secret,  Fox,  one  that  I  did  n't  mean  to  tell 
yet  —  I  have  an  idea." 

"Behold  me  suitably  surprised!  Sally  has  an  idea!" 

Sally  chuckled,  which  represented  the  height  of  Fox's  am 
bition  for  the  moment.  "Don't  make  fun  of  me,  or  I  won't 
tell  you  what  it  is." 

"  I  am  most  seriously  inclined,  Sally.  And  a  bank  safe  — 
or  a  strong  box  —  is  not  so  secret  as  I  am.  You  observe  that 
I  do  not  use  the  ancient  simile  of  the  grave.  There  are  many 
things  that  keep  a  secret  better  than  a  grave.  I  am  listening." 

With  that,  he  inclined  his  head  toward  her. 

"I  might  box  your  ear  instead  of  telling  you,"  said  Sally 
lightly,  "but  I  won't.  You  know,"  she  continued,  hesitating 
a  little,  "that  Uncle  John's  business  has  been  —  well,  just 
kept  alive,  until  they  should  decide  what  to  do  with  it." 

Fox  nodded,  wondering  what  she  was  coming  at. 

"And  I  was  in  Uncle  John's  office  every  day  for  years.  I 
got  much  interested.  And  I  —  I  believe  that  I  could  do  some 
thing  with  it,  Fox,  after  I  had  served  my  apprenticeship 
at  it.  I  think  I  should  like  to  try.  The  clerks  and  things  — 
the  machinery  of  the  business  —  are  there."  Fox  wondered 
what  the  clerks  and  things  would  have  thought  of  it.  "I 
wish  I  had  spoken  to  Dick  about  it.  He  '11  be  away,  now,  for 
a  month.  But  I  could  write  to  him,  could  n't  I?  I  will." 

"There  is  a  good  deal  in  this  idea  of  yours,  Sally,"  was 
Fox's  only  comment.  He  was  looking  at  her  with  a  little 
smile  of  amusement.  "Don't  you  want  to  vote?"  he 
asked  abruptly. 

"  No,  I  don't,"  she  answered  as  abruptly.  "  But  I  thought 


310  CONCERNING  SALLY 

that  it  would  be  a  great  pity  to  let  an  old  established  business 
just  vanish.  And  they  all  seem  so  proud  of  it.  And  per 
haps  Charlie  could  get  into  it  when  he  is  through  college. 
At  least,  if  he  was  disposed  to,  it  would  —  it  might  give  us 
—  mother  and  me  —  some  control  over  him  again.  Don't 
you  think  so,  Fox?" 

Fox  shook  his  head  gravely.  "  I  don't  know,  Sally.  The 
idea  strikes  me  as  a  good  one;  a  good  one  for  you.  I  think 
I  should  go  rather  slow  about  Charlie." 

"Well  — "  Sally  turned.  "  It  is  a  secret,  you  know,  Fox." 

"Between  you  and  me,  Sally,"  Fox  returned  gently. 

Sally  returned  to  her  contemplation  of  the  woods.  She 
seemed  to  note  something. 

"  I  believe,"  she  said  suddenly,  "that  those  trees  are  good 
to  climb." 

"Why,"  said  Fox,  smiling,  "I  believe  they  are." 

"Will  you  —  "  Sally  began  brightly;  then  she  seemed  to 
change  her  mind  and  she  changed  her  question  accordingly. 
"Won't  you  keep  this  house  open?  It  is  a  pity  not  to." 

"Keep  the  house  open?"  Fox  repeated,  puzzled. 

"Why,  yes,"  she  replied.  " Don't  you  remember  that  you 
said  —  or  intimated  —  that  you  were  going  to  get  married?  " 

Fox  laughed.  "  I  believe  I  did,"  he  answered,  "on  a  certain 
occasion.  I  believe  I  am,  although  I  can't  say  exactly  when 
it  will  be." 

"I  think,  Fox,"  said  Sally,  turning  to  him  and  speaking 
with  emphasis,  "that  we  are  old  enough  friends  for  you  to  — 
you  might  tell  me  who  the  girl  is.  I  should  like  to  congratu 
late  her." 

"You  shall  know,  Sally,  I  promise  you.  I  would  n't  even 
get  engaged  without  your  knowledge." 

"Oh,"  said  Sally  then,  brightening  unconsciously,  "then 
she  has  n't  given  her  answer  yet?" 

Fox  had  hard  work  to  keep  from  laughing,  but  he  did. 

"Not  yet,"  he  said. 

"It  seems  to  me  she  takes  her  time  about  it,"  Sally  ob 
served. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  311 

"Should  she  give  me  her  answer  before  she  is  asked?" 

"Oh!"  Sally  cried.  "So  you  haven't  even  asked  her! 
Well,  I  think  you're  a  slow  poke." 

"Do  you?"  Fox  said  slowly.  "Do  you?  Well,  perhaps 
I  am.  Perhaps  I  am.  It  had  not  occurred  to  me.  I  '11  think 
it  over." 

"And  Margaret  — "  said  Sally. 

"Margaret!"  Fox  interrupted,  mystified. 

"Considering  the  imminence  of  the  —  the  catastrophe," 
Sally  went  on,  smiling  a  little,  "it  might  be  just  as  well  to 
climb  while  I  have  the  chance." 

"Now?" 

Sally  looked  around.  The  crowd  was  thinning,  but  it  was 
still  a  crowd. 

"Perhaps  not  now.   But  on  the  first  opportunity." 

"There'll  be  a  good  many  opportunities.   Even  after  — " 

Sally  shook  her  head.  "  I  could  n't  come  here,  you  know, 
and  climb  trees.  Only  think  what  Margaret  would  say  — 
and  think!" 

•"Margaret!"  Fox  exclaimed  again.  "Why,  I  don't  re 
member  intimating  anything  about  — " 

"Oh,  Doctor  Sanderson,"  cried  a  high  and  quavering 
voice;  the  voice  of  Miss  Patty  Havering  Hazen,  "here  you 
are  at  last!  I  have  been  looking  everywhere." 

Ah!  Doctor  Sanderson;  you  are  saved  again!  Good  for 
you,  Patty!  Good  on  your  head!  But  is  it  possible  that 
the  doctor  did  not  want  to  be  saved?  Did  we  hear  aright? 

"Damn!"  observed  Doctor  Sanderson  quietly.  It  was 
a  heartfelt  observation  made  for  his  own  satisfaction,  so  far 
as  a  mere  remark  could  accomplish  that  desirable  end,  and 
was  intended,  we  may  be  sure,  for  no  other  ears  than  his 
own.  But  Sally  heard  it  and  chuckled. 

Yes,  good  for  you,  Patty!  There  is  no  knowing  what  he 
might  have  been  led  into  saying  if  he  had  not  been  interrupted 
at  this  point;  what  unwise  course  he  might  have  pursued. 
You  were  just  in  time,  Patty,  to  save  him  from  his  folly. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THAT  old  office  from  whose  windows  one  could  see  the 
rows  of  oil-casks  and  the  fence  of  old  ships'  sheath 
ing  and  the  black  dust  of  the  road  and  the  yards  of 
vessels  —  that  old  office  which  had  been  sleeping  for  some 
thing  more  than  a  year  —  that  old  office  which  had  been 
left  behind  when  the  business  centre  of  Whitby  began  to 
move  uptown,  so  many  years  ago  —  that  old  office,  as  I 
started  to  say  at  the  beginning,  was  waking  up  again. 

One  hot  morning  in  early  August,  Horry  Carling  stood  at 
the  window,  his  hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets,  and  he 
gazed  at  a  row  of  oil-casks ;  gazed  thoughtfully  and  for  a  long 
time.  Then  a  smile  began  to  curl  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
Presently  he  chuckled. 

"I  s — s — say,  O — Ol — lie,  c — c — come  here;  th — that 
is,  if — f — f  S — S — Sally  c — can  s — s — spare  you." 

Sally  looked  up  from  her  papers.  Kfer  hair  was  in  a  pretty 
disorder;  in  a  disorder  that  was  very  attractive,  indeed, 
being  somewhat  rumpled  in  the  front  and  running  over  with 
little  ringlets,  formed  by  the  heat  and  the  dampness,  at  her 
forehead  and  by  the  sides  of  her  ears  and  down  at  her  neck. 
She  was  busy,  but  she  was  interested  and  she  was  happy,  for 
which  I,  for  one,  am  thankful.  She  brushed  the  ringlets  out 
of  her  eyes,  impatiently,  and  smiled. 

"Go  ahead,  Ollie,"  she  said.    "What  is  it,  Horry?" 

"O — only  a  r — r — row  of  b — b — bar — r — rels,"  he  replied. 
Ollie  Pilcher  was  standing  at  his  elbow  now,  looking  over 
his  shoulder.  "  D — d — do  y — y — you  rem — em — mmb — ber 
th — that  r — r — row?"  Horry  asked.  "M — m — might  b — 
b — be  the  th — thev — v — very  s — same  b — b — b — barrels." 

Ollie  burst  out  laughing.  He  did  remember.  "How  long 
ago  was  that,  Horry?" 


CONCERNING  SALLY  313 

7 — ven  years,"  he  answered.  "Ab — b — bout 
th — this  t — t — time  o'  y — year,  w — w — was  n't  it?" 

Ollie  nodded. 

"Oh,"  Sally  cried,  "I  remember  that,  too." 

Horry  turned.  "  Y — y — you  d — do ! "  he  spluttered  in  sur 
prise  .  ' '  Wh — wh — where  w — w — were  y — you  ? ' ' 

"Sitting  at  that  very  window,"  she  returned.  "Uncle 
John  saw  it,  too,  —  some  of  it." 

Horry  chuckled  again.  "Y — y — your  Un — n — cle  "  — 
here  he  winked  and  gave  a  peculiar  twitch  to  his  eye 
brows,  as  though  that  last  syllable  hurt  him  —  "J — J — 
John  w — was  a  b — brick,  S — S — Sally." 

"  He  was,  Horry.  You  don't  know  what  a  brick  he  was." 
She  sighed  lightly  and  then  she  laughed.  "Whatever  did  you 
do  with  your  jacket  ?" 

"M — m — most  s — set  th — the  h — house  af — f — fire  w — 

with  it.  I — it  w — w — was  a  p — pretty  n — n — new  j j — 

j  — th — there !  —  c — coat,  and  m — m — moth — ther  c — c — 
could  n't  b — b — bear  to  th — throw  it  aw — w — way,  s — so 
sh — sh — she  k — k — kept  it  1 — lying  ar — r — round  'n — n — 
ntil  w — w — winter.  Th — then  sh — she  t — t — told  m — me 
t — to  p — p — put  it  in — n — to  th — the  f — f — furnace.  M — 
m — most  s — set  th — the  h — house  af — f — f — fire.  F — f — 
full  o'  o — o — oil,  y'  kn — n — now.  H — h — hor — rid  sm — 
sm — smoke." 

Ollie  and  Sally  were  chuckling  in  little  bursts. 

Horry  sighed.  "Th — those  t — t — times  w — were  f — f — 
fun,  th — though,"  he  said;  "g — great — t — test  f — f — fun 
th — that  e — ever  w — was.  N — never  c — c — come  ag — 
g — gain,  w — will  th — they,  Ol — Ollie?" 

"Oh,"  Ollie  replied  lazily,  grinning,  "I  don't  know.  I'd 
like  to  run  'em  again,  right  now." 

"You  boys  had  better  not,"  Sally  remarked,  with  a  shake 

of  the  head.    "Those  barrels  belong  to  the  firm,  you  know. 

You'd  be  the  losers,  as  well  as  I  —  and  the  Hazen  Estate." 

"T — t  w — w — would    b — be  m — m — more   f — f — fun 

th — thans — some  th — things  I  kn — n — nowab — b — bout," 


3i4  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Horry  observed  cryptically,  "an'  1 — 1 — less  ex — x — xpen — 
— s — si  ve . " 

Ollie  looked  at  him  and  they  both  grinned  and  went  back 
to  their  desks. 

As  may  have  been  inferred,  Horry  Carling  and  Ollie 
Pilcher  were,  if  not  members  of  the  firm  of  John  Hazen, 
Inc.,  at  least  stockholders.  Harry  Carling  would  have  liked 
to  enter  the  Law  School ;  but  being  debarred,  for  obvious 
reasons,  from  practising  law,  he  had  chosen  engineering. 
Which,  it  may  be  remarked  in  passing,  having  been  chosen 
rather  from  reasons  of  expedience  than  because  he  had  any 
natural  taste  or  aptitude  in  that  direction,  may  not  have 
been  a  wise  choice.  Horry,  who  had  gone  into  what  he  liked 
the  best  and  wanted  the  most,  stood  a  much  better  chance 
of  making  a  success  of  his  life.  Had  not  his  grandfather 
been  a  great  ship  captain  almost  all  the  days  of  his  life? 
And  Ollie's  grandfather,  too?  It  was  in  their  blood.  If  the 
salt  is  in  a  man's  blood  —  or  a  boy's  —  it  must  come  out, 
sooner  or  later,  or  engender  a  ferment  which  will  trouble 
that  man  as  long  as  he  lives.  And  Horry  and  Ollie,  having 
the  natural  taste  for  what  they  were  doing  and  having  had 
a  pretty  fair  training  for  it  all  through  their  boyhood,  fitted 
into  the  new  firm  of  John  Hazen,  Inc.,  like  new  parts  into  a 
machine.  It  needed  only  a  little  polishing  by  wear  for  that 
machine  to  run  as  smoothly  as  it  had  been  running  for  fifty 
years. 

Sally  worked  hard  at  her  new  business.  She  had  com 
pounded  with  her  conscience  by  not  giving  up  her  teach 
ing  yet  —  definitely.  She  would  teach  one  more  year,  at 
least.  Then,  she  said  to  herself,  if  she  still  felt  as  she  did 
now,  it  would  not  be  right  for  her  to  keep  on  with  it.  Mean 
while,  she  would  have  some  time  every  afternoon,  and,  with 
Horry  and  Ollie,  —  really,  it  was  going  pretty  well,  much 
better  than  she  had  sometimes  feared.  And  at  this  point  she 
would  sigh  and  smile  and  fall  to  looking  out  of  the  window 
at  the  yards  of  the  ships  —  her  ships,  she  liked  to  think, 
although,  of  course,  they  were  not  all  hers,  but  they  belonged 


CONCERNING  SALLY  315 

to  the  stockholders  in  John  Hazen,  Inc.,  according  to  their 
holdings,  and  that  list  included  Patty  and  Dick  and  Horry 
Carling  and  Ollie  Pilcher  and  some  others ;  but  she  liked  to 
look  out  at  the  vessels  and  imagine  that  they  were  all  hers. 
And  she  saw  the  rows  of  oil-barrels  and  the  black  dust  of  the 
road,  which  was  kept  pretty  well  stirrrd  up  by  the  feet  of 
the  horses  which  dragged  the  heavy  trucks  in  an  almost  con 
tinuous  procession.  At  any  rate,  she  could  call  the  dust  hers, 
—  if  she  wanted  to,  —  for  it  would  not  have  been  stirred 
up  if  it  had  not  been  for  her,  but  would  have  lain  quietly 
there  until  it  ceased  to  be  dust  at  all  and  became  no  more 
than  the  surface  of  a  street  that  was  almost  abandoned; 
baked  hard  by  the  sun  and  gullied  by  the  rain  and  somewhat 
grass-grown.  Then  she  would  laugh  and  decide  that  she  did 
not  want  the  dust  anyway;  she  had  quite  enough  of  that. 
As  for  her  method  of  compounding  with  her  conscience,  it 
pleased  her  better  than  it  pleased  Mr.  MacDalie,  who  did 
not  share  her  misgivings. 

Sally's  efforts  were  not  enough  to  induce  Charlie  to  spend 
his  vacation  slaving  in  an  office.  Every  one  might  not  call 
the  occupation  of  Horry  and  Ollie  slaving.  Sally  mildly  sug 
gested  that  view  of  the  matter. 

"  If  I  owned  some  stock  in  it,  the  matter  would  have  a  dif 
ferent  aspect,  no  doubt,"  Charlie  replied  sarcastically.  "As 
it  is,  I  should  be  nothing  but  a  clerk." 

He  was  lucky  to  have  the  chance  to  start  with  that, 
Sally  pointed  out.  It  was  possible  that  he  was  not  fitted  to 
be  more  than  office  boy. 

With  this  shot,  which  may  have  been  unduly  hard  upon 
Charlie,  Sally  turned  away.  Charlie,  at  any  rate,  thought 
it  unduly  hard,  and  felt  much  injured.  Sally  was  always 
hard  on  him;  unfair.  What  could  she  know  against  him? 
And,  having  procured  a  horse  at  a  livery  stable,  —  the 
liveliest  young  horse  they  had,  with  the  most  stylish  rig, 
which,  by  the  way,  Sally  would  have  the  privilege  of  paying 
for,  —  Charlie  took  his  way  out  to  Doctor  Sanderson's  to 
see  Patty  and  to  be  consoled  and,  incidentally,  with  the 


3i6  CONCERNING  SALLY 

secret  hope  that  Patty  had  a  few  dollars  to  spare  for  a 
deserving  and  much  misunderstood  boy.  For  Patty  man 
aged  to  save  up  a  few  dollars  for  that  purpose  now  and 
then,  although  Dick  had  greatly  curtailed  her  sources  of 
supply.  No,  they  were  his  sources  of  supply  which  had 
been  curtailed  by  Dick,  Charlie  said  to  himself.  Damn 
Dick  anyway!  What  right  had  he  to  do  such  a  thing?  Where 
should  he,  Charlie,  get  money  in  time  of  need?  Where  should 
he,  indeed?  Damn  Dick!  And  Charlie  gave  the  lively  young 
horse  a  cut  with  the  whip,  as  if  the  horse  were  responsi 
ble.  The  lively  young  horse  resented  cuts  with  the  whip 
and  proceeded  to  run ;  which  gave  Charlie  so  much  occupa 
tion  that  he  forgot,  for  the  moment,  about  Dick. 

Charlie  was  getting  more  and  more  into  the  habit  of  get 
ting  rigs  at  the  livery  stable,  as  the  summer  went  on,  —  rigs 
which  were  invariably  charged  to  Sally,  she  having  made 
no  objection  to  previous  charges  of  a  like  nature  —  and  of 
going  out  to  see  Patty.  Doctor  Sanderson's  place  was  so  in 
decently  far  out  anyway  that  you  had  to  have  a  horse  or  an 
automobile.  He  could  n't  be  expected  to  walk  it,  and,  of 
course,  he  had  to  see  Patty  occasionally.  You  would  n't 
have  him  so  ungrateful  as  not  to  go  to  see  her  at  all,  would 
you?  He  supposed  Sally  would  have  to  pay  for  the  rigs,  for 
he  had  n't  any  of  Uncle  John's  money,  had  he?  The  fact 
that  this  was  not  strictly  true  did  not  seem  to  occur  to  him ; 
and  the  fact  that  Patty  had  put  the  stout  horse  at  his  dis 
posal  made  no  difference,  so  far  as  the  livery  stable  was  con 
cerned.  They  —  meaning  Sally  —  might  consider  them 
selves  lucky  that  he  did  not  get  an  automobile  to  make  the 
journey  of  two  miles  and  a  half.  He  could  n't  be  expected 
to  drive  a  horse  that  was  thirty  years  old  and  was  only  fit 
for  the  bone-yard,  now,  could  he?  You  could  make  it  in 
five  minutes  with  an  auto  and  he  thought  that  they  — 
meaning  Sally  again  —  might  save  money  if  he  did  get  one. 
Of  course  he  was  n't  going  to.  He  would  defer  to  their  ab 
surd  prejudice  on  that  point.  And  more  to  the  same  effect. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  Sally  turned  away  without  speak- 


CONCERNING  SALLY  317 

ing.  She  was  afraid  to  answer ;  afraid  of  what  she  might  be 
led  to  say.  And  she  would  go  down  to  the  office  and  sit 
looking  out  of  the  window  and  wondering  what  was  to  be 
come  'of  Charlie  and  what  she  could  do  about  it ;  wondering 
what  it  was  that  he  did  in  college  that  it  seemed  to  have 
such  an  unfortunate  influence  on  him ;  wondering  whether 
it  would  not  be  better  for  him,  after  all,  to  come  out  and 
be  made  to  go  to  work.  She  almost  decided  that  it  would. 
Then  she  remembered  that  she  had  not  the  only  word  to 
say  about  that.  There  were  others  who  would  have  some 
thing  to  say  and  the  attempt  would  raise  a  storm.  Sally  was 
not  afraid  of  storms,  but  —  well  —  and  she  would  look  up  to 
find  Horry  staring  at  her  as  if  he  wanted  to  tell  her  some 
thing. 

"What  is  it,  Horry?"  she  would  ask,  smiling. 

Horry  would  be  distinctly  embarrassed.  He  always  was: 
and  he  always  made  the  same  reply.  "N — no — noth — th- 
thing,  S — S — Sally,"  he  would  say,  with  a  sigh.  "I — i- 
it's  n — n — noth — th — thing,  o — only  I  h — h — hate  t — to 
s — s — see  you  s — so  b — b — both — thered  ab — b — b — bout 
an — n — nyth — th — thing.  Ch —  er —  n — n — nob — body 's 
wo — worth  it." 

That  was  as  much  as  she  could  get  out  of  him,  although, 
to  tell  the  truth,  she  did  not  try  very  hard.  She  only  asked 
her  question  for  his  sake,  he  seemed  to  want  so  much  to  tell 
something.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  what  Horry  wanted 
to  say  he  wanted  to  say  for  her  sake ;  and  it  was  for  her  sake 
that  he  did  not  say  it,  although  it  trembled  on  the  very  tip 
of  his  tongue.  Perhaps  it  trembled  too  much.  Perhaps,  if  he 
had  found  speaking  an  easier  matter,  he  would  have  told 
what  he  seemed  to  be  on  the  point  of  telling. 

Toward  the  last  of  August,  Henrietta  and  Dick  came  back. 
Henrietta,  of  course,  did  not  have  much  time,  but  she  did 
manage  to  come  and  see  Sally  at  the  office,  one  afternoon, 
on  which  occasion  she  completely  upset  the  business  of 
John  Hazen,  Inc.,  and  all  the  members  of  the  firm,  both 
present  and  prospective,  fluttered  about  her  and  gave  her 


3i8  CONCERNING  SALLY 

their  undivided  attention.  Naturally,  this  state  of  affairs 
pleased  Henrietta,  but  it  embarrassed  her,  too,  for  you  can't 
—  or  a  girl  who  has  been  recently  married  can't  —  speak 
out  freely  concerning  the  secrets  which  burden  her  bosom 
before  two  unmarried  young  fellows,  —  not  that  the  fact 
of  their  being  unmarried  made  any  difference,  of  course,  — 
but  before  two  young  fellows  whom  she  had  never  seen  be 
fore  in  her  life.  But  Henrietta  made  an  effort  to  see  Sally 
alone,  and  on  the  occasion  of  that  effort,  which  was  success 
ful,  she  talked  a  steady  stream  about  Dick,  to  all  of  which 
Sally  assented  with  a  smile  and  with  as  much  enthusiasm 
as  even  Henrietta  could  wish. 

"And,  you  know,  Sally,"  she  said  at  the  end  of  this  eu- 
logium  —  and  otherwise,  "you  know,  we  are  in  a  difficulty 
now.  It  is  not  a  very  great  difficulty  and  yet  it  is,  too.  We 
don't  know  where  to  live." 

"How  terrible!"  said  Sally. 

' '  There  are  so  few  houses  that  are  —  well ,  dignified  enough ; 
suited  to  Dick's  position,  you  know." 

"Why  don't  you  build?" 

"We  might,  of  course,  but  that  would  take  a  long  time, 
and  —  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  've  set  my  —  we  have  set 
our  hearts  on  an  old  house;  not  too  old,  you  know." 

"I  see,"  said  Sally;  "just  old  enough." 

"Exactly,"  Henrietta  agreed.  "Just  old  enough.  Now 
there's  Miss  Patty's  house.  It's  restored  and  the  work's 
done." 

"Well?" 

"And  Miss  Patty  does  n't  seem  inclined  to  live  in  it.  She 
does  n't  like  to  leave  Fox's.  I  saw  her  and  spoke  about  it, 
and  she  said  so." 

"Well,  then,  where  is  the  difficulty?  Patty's  house  is  a 
very  pleasant,  homelike  house.  I  judge  that  it  is  just  old 
enough.  Can't  you  rent  it?" 

"  No,"  said  Henrietta  in  accents  of  despair.  "  Patty  won't 
rent  it.  She  says  she  may  want  to  go  back  at  any  minute. 
She  said  she'd  be  glad  to  oblige  me,  as  Doctor  Sanderson's 


CONCERNING  SALLY  319 

sister,  but  my  being  Mr.  Torrington's  wife  changes  the  as 
pect  of  the  matter.  She  seems  to  have  some  grudge  against 
Dick." 

Sally  laughed.  "That  is  n't  so  strange.  Knowing  Patty, 
I  should  think  you  'd  better  give  up  the  idea  for  the  present." 

"That's  just  it,"  Henrietta  replied  hastily.  "For  the 
present.  That  makes  it  unwise  for  us  to  build,  when  we  may 
be  able  to  get  that  house  at  any  time  almost.  Of  course, 
Dick  must  not  seem  to  force  Miss  Patty  in  any  way.  He  had 
to  use  his  authority  under  the  will,  you  know.  Mr.  Hazen 
would  have  expected  him  to  and  would  have  wished  him 
to,  or  why  should  he  have  made  his  will  that  way?  He  had 
to  —  Dick,  I  mean,  of  course  —  Dick  simply  had  to,  don't 
you  see,  Sally,  when  he  found  that  Patty  had  been  using 
all  that  money  and  she  would  n't  tell  what  she  had  used  it 
for  —  would  n't  give  a  hint,  you  know.  Dick  only  wanted  a 
hint,  so  that  he  could  keep  his  accounts  straight,  or  some 
thing  of  that  sort.  It  was  n't  evident  at  all  that  Patty  had 
used  it  for  herself  —  Oh!"  And  Henrietta  suddenly  clapped 
her  hand  over  her  pretty  mouth.  "Have  I  been  telling  se 
crets,  Sally?  Havel?"  She  looked  rather  scared,  as  people 
were  apt  to  be  in  any  matter  which  concerned  Sally,  though 
I  can't  see  why.  Sally  was  as  mild  as  a  lamb  in  such  cases. 

She  was  mild  now,  but  she  was  gazing  at  Henrietta  with 
solemn  and  serious  eyes,  as  if  she  had  discovered  a  new  coun 
try. 

"I  don't  know,  Henrietta,"  she  replied,  "whether  you 
are  telling  secrets  or  not.  What  you  were  telling  was  news 
to  me.  If  you  are  in  any  doubt  about  it,  I  should  think  you  'd 
better  not  tell  any  more.  But  you  can  see  why  Patty  is  not 
inclined  to  do  any  favor  for  Dick." 

"Well,"  returned  Henrietta  slowly  —  slowly  for  her,  "I 
suppose  I  can,  although  I  think  that  Dick  is  doing  her  the 
greatest  favor.  As  far  as  her  house  is  concerned,  Dick  might 
feel  at  liberty  to  rent  to  any  one  else,  but  not  to  himself. 
I'm  sure  I  hope  he  won't  rent  to  anybody  else,  whatever 
he  does  or  Patty  does  n't  do.  He  ought  not  to  do  anything 


320  CONCERNING  SALLY 

that  could  be  considered  dishonorable,  of  course,  but  I  can't 
quite  see  why  this  would  be.  But  he  simply  won't." 

"No,"  said  Sally.    "I  should  expect  that  of  Dick." 

"There  doesn't  seem  to  be  anything  to  do  about  it," 
Henrietta  continued,  "unless  —  unless,"  she  suggested 
with  hesitation,  "you  would  see  Patty,  Sally." 

Sally  smiled  with  amusement.  "Of  course  I  will  if  you 
want  me  to,  Henrietta.  But  I'm  not  the  one  to  make  a 
successful  emissary  to  Patty.  I  'm  not  in  favor  any  more  than 
Dick.  You'd  much  better  make  up  to  Charlie  if  you  want 
anything  of  Patty;  much  better." 

"That  seems  to  be  a  good  idea,"  Henrietta  murmured, 
gazing  thoughtfully  at  Sally  the  while,  "  and  easy  too.  I  '11 
do  it." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

HENRIETTA  had  no  great  difficulty  in  doing  it.  She 
made  a  good  beginning  before  Charlie  went  back  to 
college,  although  she  had  only  a  little  more  than  a 
fortnight,  and  she  continued  her  attentions  at  frequent  in 
tervals  thereafter.  There  was  nothing  crude  about  either 
Henrietta  or  her  methods.  She  did  not  let  him  suspect  her 
object  or,  indeed,  that  she  had  an  object,  and  Charlie  did 
not  look  for  one.  His  own  attractions  were  enough,  goodness 
knows,  to  account  for  any  attentions  that  might  be  lavished 
upon  him,  and  he  accepted  those  attentions  almost  as  a  mat 
ter  of  course.  But  as  attentions  and  he  had  become,  to  a 
certain  extent,  strangers,  —  always  excepting  Patty's  atten 
tions,  which  did  not  count,  —  Charlie  was  very  grateful  in 
his  inmost  soul  and  he  made  the  most  of  them.  He  came 
down  to  Whitby  more  often  than  he  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  doing  and  he  invariably  went  to  the  Torringtons'  at  the 
first  possible  moment  and  spent  as  much  time  there  as  he 
could.  He  even  developed  a  certain  shyness  which  was  very 
becoming.  But  he  avoided  Dick.  He  had  a  grudge  against 
Dick  and  he  was  resolved  not  to  forget  it.  Dick  had  done 
him  an  injury. 

He  did  find  himself  forgetting  that  injury,  in  time.  Who, 
in  the  face  of  Dick's  leisurely  cordiality  and  general  good 
nature,  could  remember  not  to  forget  it?  And  in  time  — 
not  so  very  long  a  time  either  —  he  perceived  that  Henrietta 
had  a  secret  sorrow  which  gnawed  like  a  worm  at  her  heart. 
He  set  himself  the  task  of  pursuing  this  sorrow  and  plucking 
it  out ;  and  —  marvel  of  marvels !  —  he  succeeded  in  drag 
ging  from  the  unwilling  Henrietta  some  information  as  to 
its  nature.  We  can,  perhaps,  imagine  the  reluctance  with 
which  this  information  was  given. 


322  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Charlie,  although  he  may  have  been  secretly  disappointed 
that  Henrietta's  sorrow  was  not  more  serious,  —  he  may 
have  thought  that  it  was  of  no  less  import  than  that  she  had 
found,  too  late,  that  she  loved  another  man  better  than  she 
did  her  husband,  —  Charlie,  I  say,  although  he  may  have 
been  disappointed,  managed  to  conceal  whatever  of  dis 
appointment  he  felt. 

"Oh,"  he  said  magnanimously  and  with  sufficient  indif 
ference,  "don't  you  worry  about  that.  I  can  fix  that.  I'll 
just  speak  to  Patty  about  it  the  very  next  time  I  go  out 
there." 

He  did;  and  he  reported  to  Henrietta  that  he  had  pre 
vailed  upon  Patty  to  consent  to  any  arrangement  she  liked. 
He  had  also  prevailed  upon  Patty  —  not  reported  to  Hen 
rietta  —  to  scrape  together  as  many  dollars  as  she  could 
conveniently  manage  to  scrape  —  conveniently  or  incon 
veniently,  it  was  all  one  to  Charlie  —  and  to  hand  them 
over  to  him  for  some  purpose.  It  really  does  not  matter 
what  the  purpose  was.  Charlie  was  very  fertile  in  invention, 
and  if  it  was  not  one  thing  it  was  another.  Any  excuse  was 
good  enough.  But  the  strain  was  telling  upon  Patty.  Char 
lie  should  have  been  more  careful. 

Henrietta  was  so  pleased  with  the  report  that  she  re 
doubled  her  attentions.  This  may  not  have  been  wise,  but 
there  seems  to  be  no  doubt  that  it  was  good  for  Charlie,  on 
the  whole.  He  went  in  to  number  seven  but  once  before 
Christmas,  and  there  might  have  been  some  ground  for  hope 
that,  between  Henrietta's  attentions  and  his  devotion  to 
automobiles,  he  might  be  induced  to  give  it  up  altogether. 
Harry  Carling,  who  was  keeping  as  close  a  watch  upon 
Charlie  as  he  could,  hoped  so,  at  all  events. 

For  Charlie,  in  his  sophomore  year,  ran  to  motor  cars. 
Indulgence  of  a  fine  fancy  for  motors  is  apt  to  be  expen 
sive,  as  Patty  was  finding  out,  but  it  is  not  as  expensive 
as  Charlie's  one  other  diversion  is  apt  to  be,  on  occasion. 
That  his  one  experience  of  it,  in  his  first  term,  was  not  more 
expensive  must  be  set  down  solely  to  luck. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  323 

Automobiles  were  bad  enough,  as  a  diversion,  for  a  boy 
who  could  afford  them  no  better  than  Charlie  Ladue.  Patty 
learned  of  them  with  horror.  She  had  hoped,  fondly,  that 
Charlie  had  given  them  up  after  his  experience  with  them 
only  last  Easter;  oh,  she  hoped  he  had.  She  said  it  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  and  with  an  agonized  expression  that  would 
have  melted  a  heart  less  hard  than  Charlie's.  But  Charlie 
merely  smiled.  That  phantom  car  had  done  him  no  harm, 
although  he  did  not  call  it  a  phantom  car  to  Patty.  Motor 
cars  were  not  for  the  Hazens ;  not  for  people  of  the  older  r6- 
gime.  And  Charlie  smiled  again  and  remarked  that  they 
might  not  have  come  to  motors  yet,  but  they  would.  Patty 
said,  with  some  spirit,  that  they  were  vulgar  and  that  they 

—  they  had  a  bad  smell.   For  her  part,  she  was  satisfied  to 
go  no  faster  than  nature  intended.    The  horse,  as  Charlie 
might  be  aware,  was  the  fastest  animal  that  goes. 

Having  delivered  this  shot  with  evident  pride,  Patty  sat 
back  in  her  chair  and  waited  to  see  if  Charlie  would  be  able 
to  make  any  reply.  She  considered  that  last  argument  un 
answerable.  Charlie  apparently  did  not.  He  observed  that 
Pat's  horse,  rising  thirty  and  rather  fat,  could  hardly  be  called 
the  fastest  animal  that  goes.  He  never  was  very  fast.  But 
he  contented  himself  with  that,  for  Patty  had  just  turned 
over  to  him  all  the  ready  money  that  she  could  raise  and 
was  feeling  really  impoverished  in  consequence.  So  Charlie, 
having  got  what  he  came  for,  took  his  leave,  bidding  Pat 
not  to  be  anxious  on  his  account,  for  he  was  n't  going  to  get 
smashed  up  again  —  he  almost  forgot  to  put  in  the  "again" 

—  and  he  was  n't  going  to  spend  much  money  on  machines  in 
the  future.   They  always  cost  more  at  first,  before  you  got 
used  to  them.    With  this  comforting  assurance,  at  which 
poor  Patty  sighed  and  said  that  she  hoped  he  was  right, 
Charlie  went  out  cheerfully  to  sit  behind  one  of  the  fastest 
animals  that  go,  and  to  take  the  rig,  for  which  Sally  would 
have  to  pay,  back  to  the  livery  stable. 

Nothing  in  particular  happened  that  winter,  except  that 
Dick  and  Henrietta  moved  into  Miss  Patty's  house  early  in 


324  CONCERNING  SALLY 

February.  Patty  was  getting  to  be  considered  —  and  to  con 
sider  herself  —  one  of  Doctor  Sanderson's  patients.  And  the 
Retreat  was  filling  up  and  she  did  not  want  to  give  up  her 
comfortable  room,  with  the  probable  chance  that  she  would 
be  unable  to  get  it  again  when  she  came  back.  In  fact,  it 
looked  as  if  anybody  had  better  hold  on  to  what  she  had 
at  Doctor  Sanderson's. 

So  Sally  saw  but  little  of  Fox  that  winter.  They  were  both 
very  busy,  and  Sally  had  her  hands  and  her  head  full,  with 
the  office  and  her  school,  too.  But  she  liked  the  office  in  spite 
of  the  work  which,  between  you  and  me,  was  not  very  hard. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  it,  but  it  was  interesting  and  Sally 
went  home  at  night,  tired  and  happy  and  with  her  head  full 
of  schemes.  Sometimes  Everett  was  waiting  for  her.  She  did 
not  know  whether  she  liked  that  or  not,  but  there  did  not 
seem  to  be  reason  enough  for  sending  him  away.  She  did  not 
quite  know  what  her  relations  were  with  Everett ;  friendly, 
she  hoped,  no  more.  For  there  was  a  difference  between 
Sally's  state  of  mind  now  and  her  state  of  mind  the  year 
before.  She  was  not  indifferent  now,  she  was  happy  and 
things  mattered  in  a  wholesome  way.  But  Sally  knew  that 
Fox  had  not  opened  the  cream-colored  house  again ;  not  since 
Henrietta's  wedding.  He  had  not  even  made  any  prepara 
tions  to  open  it.  Sally  was  watching  that  house,  out  of  the 
corner  of  her  eye,  and  she  knew.  What  an  old  slow  poke  he 
was,  was  n't  he?  The  winter  was  gone  before  she  knew  it  and 
it  was  almost  Easter.  Then,  one  afternoon,  Charlie  made  his 
appearance,  suddenly  and  unexpectedly,  and  went  up  to  see 
Henrietta  almost  immediately. 

Sally  was  vaguely  worried  by  this  sudden  appearance  of 
Charlie,  she  could  not  tell  why.  She  had  felt,  all  along,  a 
great  relief  that  he  had  taken  so  readily  to  the  Henrietta 
treatment  and  she  had  felt  some  surprise  at  it.  Having 
worried  about  it  for  an  hour,  she  put  it  aside.  It  would  be 
time  enough  to  worry  when  she  knew  there  was  something 
to  worry  about.  When  that  time  did  come,  she  would  not 
have  time  to  worry,  for  she  would  probably  be  too  busy 


CONCERNING  SALLY  325 

doing  something  about  it.  It  was  inaction  that  worried 
Sally,  which  is  the  case  with  most  of  us.  At  any  rate,  Charlie 
was  all  right  for  the  present.  He  had  only  gone  up  to  Hen 
rietta's.  Then  Harry  Carling  came  in:  "J — j — just  c — c — 
came  d — d — down  t — to  s — s — see  H — H — Ho — orry,  y — 
y — you  kn — n — now,  S — S — Sally,  f — f — for  a  m — m — 
min — n — nute."  And  Sally  smiled  and  shook  hands  with 
Harry  and  hastened  to  say  —  to  save  Horry  the  painful 
experience  of  mentioning  the  matter  —  that  he  could  go 
whenever  he  wanted  to,  so  far  as  she  knew.  And  they  went 
out  together. 


CHAPTER  XX 

JOHN  UPJOHN  JUNIOR  ran  into  the  house  just  in  time  for 
supper.  He  was  so  excited  and  his  entrance  was  so  pre 
cipitate  that  he  almost  collided  with  his  mother,  who 
had  just  reached  the  foot  of  the  stairs;  and  only  by  the 
exercise  of  almost  superhuman  agility  he  managed  to  avoid 
that  catastrophe.  It  was  just  as  well,  for  many  reasons ;  the 
reason  which  influenced  John  Junior  being  that  such  an 
accident  was  likely  to  result,  then  and  thereafter,  in  more 
damage  to  himself  than  to  his  mother. 

He  flung  his  cap  down  on  the  hall  table  with  such  violence 
that  it  slid  off  and  fell  upon  the  floor;  but  he  could  not  pick 
it  up  at  the  moment  because  he  was  engaged  in  shedding  his 
overcoat,  which  immediately  slipped  off  of  his  arms  upon 
a  chair.  He  began  to  speak  at  once. 

"M — m — m — moth — ther!"  he  exclaimed  explosively. 
"  I— I—  V— ve  —  darn  it  all ! " 

Mrs.  Upjohn  rebuked  her  offspring  mildly.  "John,  what 
is  the  matter  with  you?  Is  your  name  Carling,  that  you 
can't  speak  without  stuttering  so?  And  I  should  think  you 
would  do  well  to  moderate  your  language,  at  any  rate  when 
you  speak  to  your  mother.  And  you  must  learn  to  come  into 
the  house  less  like  a  tornado.  Come  in  quietly,  like  a  gentle 
man." 

John  Junior  gave  a  contemptuous  grunt.  "J — just  been 
h — hearing  the  Carlings  talking.  That's  wh — why  I  can't 
talk'n'wh — why  1st — st — stut — t — terso.  Gosh  darn  it!  I 
mean  hang  it!" 

"Pick  up  your  cap,  John,"  Mrs.  Upjohn  commanded 
sternly.  "And  hang  it,  if  you  will."  This  pun  of  Mrs.  Up- 
john's  somewhat  softened  her  stern  command.  She  could 
not  help  smiling. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  327 

• 

John  kicked  his  cap  out  from  behind  the  table  and,  picking 
it  up,  threw  it  at  the  hat-rack,  where  it  happened  to  catch 
and  stick.  He  began  again. 

"  I — I — I V — ve  g — g — got  s — s — s — " 

"Suppose  you  go  up  and  wash  your  face  and  hands,"  Mrs. 
Upjohn  suggested,  "and  come  down  to  supper.  The  bell 
rang  before  you  came  in.  When  you  come  down  you  may  be 
able  to  talk  intelligibly." 

So  John  Junior  rushed  upstairs  and,  after  an  incredibly 
short  period,  during  which  we  must  suppose  that  he  went 
through  some  sort  of  an  operation  which  he  regarded  as 
sufficient,  he  appeared  again,  slid  down  the  balusters  like 
lightning,  landed  at  the  bottom  with  an  appalling  thump, 
and  ran  into  the  dining-room. 

"Guess  I  can  talk  now,"  he  announced,  taking  his  chair 
by  the  back  and  sliding  it  under  him.  "I  was  hurrying 
home,  so's  not  to  be  late  to  supper,  when  I  came  up  be 
hind  the  Carlings.  They  —  Letty  ain't  here,  is  she?"  he 
added,  looking  about  doubtfully. 

"No,"  Mrs.  Upjohn  replied.  "You  know  that  Letty 
won't  come  again  for  more  than  a  month." 

"Huh!"  growled  John  Junior.  "She  will  if  she  feels  like 
it.  Never  can  tell  when  she'll  be  here.  She's  always  here." 

Mrs.  Upjohn  was  a  little  slow  about  taking  anything  in. 
She  had  been  puzzling  over  John's  former  speech  and  had  just 
the  full  import  of  it. 

"Did  you  say  the  Carlings,  John?"  she  asked.  "I  don't 
see  how  that  can  be,  for  Harry's  in  Cambridge." 

"He  ain't  either,"  John  replied  amiably.  "Don't  you 
s'pose  I'd  know  those  freaks?  I  guess  I  would." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Upjohn  doubtfully. 

"And  they  were  talking  together,"  John  continued,  "or 
trying  to  talk.  They  did  n't  know  I  was  behind  'em,  and  I 
kept  still  as  I  could  so's  I  could  hear  what  they  said.  They 
ought  to  have  an  interpreter.  But  I  got  most  of  it,  and  then 
I  slid  out  for  fear  they'd  see  me.  What  d'you  s'pose  they 
were  talking  about?" 


328  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Upjohn  curiously. 
"What?" 

John  kept  his  mother  in  suspense  while  he  disposed  of  his 
mouthful.  He  swallowed  twice,  then  took  a  drink  of  water. 
At  last  he  was  ready  and  he  looked  at  his  mother,  suspend 
ing  operations  for  that  purpose. 

"Charlie  Ladue  's  a  gambler,"  he  announced  abruptly. 

"What!"  Mrs.  Upjohn  exclaimed.    But  she  was  pleased 
in  spite  of  herself.    What  would  Letty  say  to  that?    "Are 
you  sure  you  heard  it  right?" 
•     "'Course  I'm  sure." 

"Well,  John,  I  'm  grieved  to  hear  it.  You  must  be  careful 
not  to  talk  about  it." 

"  'Course  I  won't  talk  about  it.  I  '11  stop  now  if  you  want 
me  to." 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Upjohn  judicially.  "No,  I  think  you 
ought  to  tell  me  all  you  heard.  How  long  has  it  been  going 
on  and  where  does  Charlie  go?" 

So  John  Junior  retailed  at  some  length  all  that  he  had 
heard,  rather  to  the  neglect  of  his  supper.  Certain  important 
details  were  lacking  and  he  had  to  fill  them  in  from  his 
imaginings,  which  were  rather  defective  as  to  the  points  un 
der  discussion. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Upjohn,  when  the  recital  and  the  sup 
per  were  both  finished,  "  I  think  somebody  ought  to  be  told. 
I  don't  just  like  to  tell  Sally,  but  she  ought  to  know." 

"They  did  n't  want  to  tell  Sally  either.  Horry  Carling's 
in  her  office  and  he  could  tell  her  easy  enough  if  he  wanted 
to." 

"That's  so,"  Mrs.  Upjohn  agreed.  "I  guess  I'll  tell 
Patty.  I  have  a  pretty  good  idea  where  Charlie's  money 
came  from.  Patty  won't  thank  me,  but  somebody  ought  to 
open  her  eyes.  I  '11  go  out  there  to-morrow.  I  wonder  if  I 
could  n't  find  somebody  who's  going  out.  You  look  around, 
early  to-morrow,  before  school,  and  see  if  you  can't  findsome- 
body  that's  going  and  send  him  up  here.  There's  no  need 
to  hire  a  horse,  for  that." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  329 

Accordingly  the  grocer's  delivery  wagon  stopped  at  the 
house  the  next  forenoon,  and  the  boy  asked  for  Mrs.  Up 
john.  That  lady  came  to  the  door,  looking  a  little  puzzled. 
It  seemed  that  John  had  — 

Mrs.  Upjohn  laughed.  "And  he's  gone  to  school,"  she 
said.  "  I  did  n't  mean  that  he  should  ask  you."  She  laughed 
again.  "  But  I  don't  know  why  I  should  n't  go  in  a  grocery 
wagon.  It's  perfectly  respectable." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  the  boy  replied,  grinning.  "And  it's  a 
very  nice  wagon,  almost  new,  and  it's  very  comfortable." 

Patty  was  sitting  at  her  window  when  the  grocer's 
wagon  stopped  at  the  door  and  Mrs.  Upjohn  got  out. 

"  Mercy  on  us!"  Patty  exclaimed.  "If  there  is  n't  Alicia 
Upjohn!  She'll  break  her  neck.  Come  in  a  grocer's  wagon ! 
Alicia  was  always  queer,  but  there  is  a  point  beyond  which 
—  yes,  there  is  a  point  beyond  which  she  should  not  allow 
herself  to  go."  And  Miss  Patty  gasped  faintly  and  leaned 
back,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  heard  Mrs.  Upjohn  at  her 
door. 

That  interview  was  painful  to  Patty,  at  least.  Mrs.  Up 
john  was  rather  pressed  for  time,  as  the  grocer's  boy  could 
not  wait  more  than  fifteen  minutes.  It  is  a  little  difficult 
to  break  unwelcome  news  gently  in  fifteen  minutes.  It 
might  have  been  difficult  to  break  this  particular  news,  which 
was  very  unwelcome,  even  if  there  had  been  no  time  limit 
set  by  a  grocer's  boy.  But  within  ten  minutes  Mrs.  Upjohn 
had  Patty  in  tears  and  protesting  her  belief  in  Charlie's  in 
nocence  and  exhibiting  all  her  characteristic  obstinacy  in  the 
face  of  proof.  Had  not  Charlie  been  there  that  very  morning 
to  see  her?  He  had  just  left,  indeed,  and  he  had  been  as  loving 
as  the  most  exacting  of  doting  aunts  could  wish.  Did  n't 
Alicia  suppose  that  she,  Patty,  would  be  able  to  detect  any 
signs  of  wrong-doing  on  his  part?  At  which  Alicia  smiled 
and  made  a  reply  which  made  Patty  almost  frantic  and  within 
the  five  minutes  which  remained  Patty  had  told  Alicia  that 
she  would  do  well  to  mind  her  own  business  and  she  wished 
she  would  go  and  never  come  near  her  again.  So,  the  fifteen 


330  CONCERNING  SALLY 

minutes  being  almost  up,  Alicia  went,  with  what  dignity 
she  could  summon.  She  met  Doctor  Beatty  in  the  lower  hall 
and  told  him  that  he  had  better  see  to  Patty,  who  seemed 
beside  herself.  He  went  at  once;  and  Mrs.  Upjohn  seized 
that  opportunity  to  climb  into  her  seat  beside  the  grocer's 
boy. 

Doctor  Beatty  was  with  Patty  a  long  time  and  used  every 
art  he  had  —  he  had  n't  many,  but  he  used  all  he  had 
with  a  degree  of  patience  that  was  surprising  —  to  quiet 
Patty,  who  needed  quieting  if  ever  anybody  did.  He  was 
more  alarmed  by  that  disturbance  of  Patty's  than  he  would 
have  acknowledged;  more  than  he  had  expected,  he  found, 
although  he  had  been  in  daily  expectation  of  something  of 
the  kind. 

He  found  her  muttering  to  herself  and  exclaiming  brokenly. 
She  looked  at  him  with  wild  eyes.  "Go  away!"  she  cried  as 
he  entered.  "He's  not,  I  tell  you.  He  never  did!" 

"No,"  Doctor  Beatty  agreed  calmly.  "Certainly  not. 
But  there!  You  don't  want  me  to  go  away,  Patty."  He 
pulled  up  a  chair  and  sat  down. 

"Not  that  chair!"  she  cried.  "Not  that  chair!  That's 
the  chair  she  sat  in  —  Alicia  Upjohn.  If  you  sit  in  it  you  '11 
say  so,  too.  Take  any  other,  but  not  that  one." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  he  said.  And  he  drew  up  another  chair 
and  sat  down.  "Now,  tell  me  what's  the  matter." 

At  this  Patty  began  to  weep  violently.  Her  sentences  were 
broken,  and  now  and  then  she  gave  a  loud  cry  that  seemed 
to  be  wrung  from  her  heart. 

"Alicia  ought  n't  to  have  said  it.  She  might  have  known 
how  —  that  I  —  how  I  would  f-f —  Oh!"  She  could  not 
speak  for  a  moment.  "She  just  wanted  me  to  think  that 
that  was  where  my  money  went.  She 's  a  spiteful  thing.  Oh, 
how  could  she?  How  could  she?  Cruel!  Cruel!"  Patty  fell 
to  weeping  again.  She  seemed  to  lose  all  control  over  her 
self.  She  rocked  to  and  fro  and  leaned  so  far  over,  in  her  new 
fit  of  crying,  that  Doctor  Beatty  put  out  his  hand  to  save 
her  from  falling.  He  was  glad  to  have  her  cry  so. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  331 

She  seized  his  hand  and  pressed  it  and  looked  up  at  him 
appealingly,  her  eyes  raining  tears.  "Oh,  Meriwether,"  she 
sobbed,  "you  don't  think  he  does,  do  you?  Tell  me  that  you 
don't." 

He  looked  down  into  those  faded  eyes.  "Certainly  I  don't, 
Patty,"  he  answered  gently.  Out  of  the  pity  which  he  felt 
for  her,  he  may  have  pressed  her  hand  a  little.  He  had  but 
the  faintest  idea  what  she  was  talking  about. 

Patty  flushed  and  relaxed  her  hold  upon  his  hand.  "You 
area  c-c-comfort,  Meriwether,"  she  said  more  calmly.  "It 
is  a  great  deal  to  know  that  I  have  one  friend,  at  least,  who 
understands  me.  I — I  —  have  so  few,  Meriwether!"  She 
began  to  sob  again.  "S-so  f-f-few,  and  I  used  to  have  so 
so  many!" 

"Cry  quietly  as  much  as  you  like,  Patty.  It  will  do  you 
good." 

He  made  a  slight  movement,  at  which  Patty  cried  out. 

"  Don't  go !  Don't  go  yet ! "  She  put  out  her  hand  blindly, 
as  if  to  stop  him. 

"  I  '11  stay  until  you  are  yourself  again.  Never  fear."  He 
sighed  faintly. 

It  was  a  new  r61e  for  Doctor  Beatty,  but  he  played  it  better 
than  would  have  been  expected.  Patty  turned  to  the  win 
dow  and  he  heard  the  sound  of  sobbing  steadily  for  some 
time.  At  last  the  sound  ceased.  She  was  sitting  with  her 
chin  resting  on  her  hand,  which  held  her  wet  handkerchief 
crumpled  up  into  a  tight  ball;  and  she  was  looking  out 
through  her  tears,  but  seeing  nothing,  and  she  seemed  to 
have  difficulty  in  breathing. 

"He's  such  a  good  boy  —  to  me!"  she  said,  without  turn 
ing.  "  Such  a  good  boy !  I  am  so  fond  of  him  that  it  almost 
breaks  my  heart  to  have  anybody  say  —  say  such  things. 
How  can  they?  How  can  they  have  the  heart?"  She  gave 
a  single  sob. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

SALLY  sat  by  her  window  in  the  office  of  John  Hazen, 
Inc.,  looking  absently  out  of  it.  Doctor  Beatty  was 
talking  to  her  earnestly,  in  low  tones,  and  she  was 
serious  and  sober,  listening  intently. 

"Mrs.  Upjohn,"  he  was  saying,  —  "thrifty  soul!  —  came 
out  to  Sanderson's  this  morning  with  the  grocer's  boy"  — 
Sally  chuckled  suddenly,  in  spite  of  her  seriousness,  but 
stopped  as  suddenly  —  "and  went  up  to  see  Patty.  I  'd  like," 
he  interrupted  himself  to  say  emphatically,  "to  see  every 
visitor  of  suspicious  character  required  to  show  cause  for 
seeing  the  patients.  Yes,"  he  nodded  in  reply  to  a  question 
ing  look  of  Sally's,  "  Patty  is  a  patient.  There's  no  doubt 
about  that,  I'm  afraid.  And  Mrs.  Upjohn  is  a  suspicious 
character.  There  is  no  doubt  about  that  either.  Oh,  yes, 
well-meaning,  perhaps;  even  probably.  But  she  should  not 
have  been  allowed  to  see  Patty.  I  consider  Patty's  condi 
tion  —  er  —  ticklish.  Distinctly  ticklish." 

Sally  was  surprised.  "What  do  you  mean?  How  is  her 
condition  ticklish?" 

"Mentally,"  he  replied. 

Sally  turned  to  Doctor  Beatty  with  a  start  and  looked 
him  straight  in  the  eyes.  She  wanted  to  see  just  what  he 
meant.  Then  she  shuddered. 

"I  hope  not,"  she  said. 

"Well,  we  won't  think  of  it.  We  are  doing  our  best.  But 
Mrs.  Upjohn  succeeded  in  upsetting  her  completely  in  a  very 
few  minutes.  I  was  afraid,  at  first,  that  the  mischief  was 
done.  Oh,  it  was  n't.  She  came  back  all  right.  I  could  n't 
make  her  tell  me  what  Mrs.  Upjohn  had  said,  but,  picking 
up  a  thread  here  and  there,  I  judged  that  Charlie  had  been 
misbehaving  himself  somehow.  I  could  n't  find  out  just 


CONCERNING  SALLY  333 

how.  I  am  sorry  to  add  another  log  to  your  load,  Sally,  but 
I  thought  that  you  would  be  glad  to  be  told  of  what  seems 
to  be  common  report.  I  know  that  I  would." 

"I  am,"  she  said.  "I'm  glad  and  sorry,  too.  But  I'm 
greatly  obliged  to  you."  She  was  silent  for  some  little  time, 
looking  out  and  thinking  hard.  "Do  you  know  what  kind 
of  misbehavior  it  is?  "  she  asked.  "  I  'm  pretty  familiar  with 
several  kinds,"  she  added,  with  a  hard  little  laugh.  "Don't 
be  afraid  to  tell  me  the  truth  if  you  know  it." 

Doctor  Beatty  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  know  it.  It  seems 
to  be  connected  with  Patty's  money." 

"  I  have  been  afraid  of  it,  but  it  has  been  impossible  to  get 
hold  of  anything  definite,"  replied  Sally  gravely.  "Even 
you  are  n't  telling  me  anything  definite,  although  I  believe 
you  would  if  you  knew  it." 

He  nodded.   "You  may  be  sure  I  would,  Sally." 

"It  is  really  curious  how  hard  it  is  for  people  to  find  out 
what  concerns  them  most  nearly,"  she  continued.  "Every 
body  is  most  considerate  of  one's  feelings."  She  gave  an 
other  hard  little  laugh.  "  I  've  not  much  doubt  that  almost 
everybody  in  town,  excepting  Charlie's  relatives  and  near 
friends,  —  if  he  has  any,  —  has  known  of  this  for  a  long  time. 
It  would  have  been  the  part  of  kindness  to  tell  me." 

"If  it  had  been  more  than  mere  rumor,"  Doctor  Beatty 
agreed,  "it  would  have  been.  I  understand,"  he  went  on 
with  a  quiet  smile,  "that  that  was  Mrs.  Upjohn's  idea  in 
telling  Patty.  She  considered  the  rumor  verified.  Her  mo 
tive  seems  to  have  been  good ,  but  the  method  adopted  was 
bad;  very  bad.  It's  difficult,  at  best." 

Sally  was  silent  again  for  some  time.  "Poor  Patty!"  she 
murmured.  "It's  hard  on  her.  If  she  has  lost  money  in  that 
way  I  must  pay  her  back." 

Doctor  Beatty  made  no  reply.  Sally  had  not  said  it  to 
him. 

"I  believe,"  she  said,  turning  to  him,  "that  I  know  how 
I  can  find  out  all  about  it  — ••  from  a  trustworthy  source," 
she  added,  smiling  gravely,  "as  Miss  Lambkin  would  put  it." 


334  CONCERNING  SALLY 

The  doctor  muttered  impatiently  under  his  breath.  Letty 
Lambkin!  But  he  had  done  his  errand,  for  which  service 
Sally  thanked  him  again. 

Doctor  Beatty  had  been  gone  but  a  few  minutes  when 
Horry  Carling  came  in.  He  nodded  pleasantly  to  Sally  and 
was  taking  off  his  overcoat. 

"Horry,"  said  Sally  suddenly,  "what  has  Charlie  been 
doing?" 

Horry  stopped,  his  coat  hanging  by  the  arms  and  his  mouth 
open,  and  looked  at  her.  He  was  very  much  startled. 

"Wh — wh — what?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"I  asked  you  what  Charlie  has  been  doing.  What  mis 
chief  has  he  been  up  to?  I  am  pretty  sure  he  has  been  mis 
behaving  himself  since  he  has  been  in  college.  How?  Has 
he  been  in  bad  company?" 

"W — w — well,  y — y — yes,"  Horry  stammered,  getting 
rather  red,  "I  th — th — think  h — he  h — h — has." 

"Do  you  mean  women,  Horry?" 

Horry's  face  went  furiously  red  at  that  question.  "N — 
n — n — no,"  -  —  he  was  in  such  a  hurry  to  say  it  that  he  was 
longer  than  usual  about  it,  —  "n — n — n — noth — th — thing 
of  th — th — that  k— k — kind,  th — th — that  I  kn — n — now 
of .  G — g — g — gam — m — ' ' 

"Gambling,  Horry?"  Sally  asked  the  question  calmly,  as 
if  she  merely  wanted  to  know.  She  did  want  to  know,  very 
much,  but  not  merely.  Knowing  was  the  first  step. 

"Y — y — yes,"  Horry  answered.  He  seemed  very  much 
relieved.  "H — h — he  has  g — g — gam — m — mbled  almost 
ev — v — ver  s — s — since  h — he's  b — b — been  th — th — 
there,"  he  added.  And  he  went  on  in  as  much  haste  as  he 
could  manage,  which  was  not  so  very  much.  Neither  he 
nor  Harry  had  been  in  Charlie's  confidence.  Most  of  the 
fellows  did  n't  care  a  rap,  of  course,  and  did  n't  pay  atten 
tion  ;  but  —  but  Harry  and  he  had  cared  and  —  and  — 
they  had  —  and  Horry  got  very  red  again  and  stopped  in 
confusion. 

Sally  smiled  upon  him.    "Thank  you  for  caring,  Horry," 


CONCERNING  SALLY  335 

she  said  gently.  "Was  that  what  you  seemed  to  have  on 
your  mind  all  last  summer?  I  thought  you  wanted  to  tell 
me  something." 

He  nodded. 

"  I  wonder  why  you  did  n't.  I  should  have  been  grateful." 

"C— c— could  n't  b— bear  to.  We  d— d — did  t— tell  D— 
D — Dick.  C — c — came  d — d — down  on  p — p — purpose. 
J — j — just  b — bef — f — fore  he  g — g — got  m — married.  I 
s — s — s'pose  he  f — f — forg — got  a — ab — b — bout  it." 

"  He  must  have,"  sighed  Sally.  "  It  is  n't  like  Dick.  Now, 
if  you  will  tell  me  all  you  know,  I  will  promise  not  to  forget 
about  it." 

Accordingly,  Horry  unburdened  his  soul  of  the  whole 
story,  so  far  as  he  knew  it,  and  Sally  listened  in  silence,  only 
nodding  now  and  then.  What  was  there  to  be  said?  Horry 
was  grateful  for  her  listening  and  for  her  silence  and  he 
stuttered  less  as  he  went  on. 

"There!"  he  concluded.  "N — now  you  kn — n — now 
all  I  d — do.  I'm  p — p — pumped  dry,  Sally,  and  I'm 
g — glad  to  g — g — get  it  of!  my  m — mind." 

"Thank  you,"  said  she;  and  she  relapsed  into  silence  and 
fell  to  looking  out  again. 

Horry  sat  still,  waiting  for  her  to  say  something  more; 
but  she  did  not  and  he  got  up,  at  last. 

"If  y — you  h — have  n — noth — th — thing  more  t — to  ask 
me,  S— Sally— " 

Sally  turned  toward  him  quickly.  "Horry,"  she  said, 
interrupting  him,  "do  you  know  where  Charlie  goes  —  to 
gamble?"  It  was  an  effort  for  her  to  say  it. 

"Y — yes,"  he  replied,  blushing  furiously  again,  but  not 
avoiding  her  eyes.  "  I  've  b — b — been  th — there." 

"Oh,  Horry!   And  are  n't  you  ashamed?" 

"N — n — not  es — s — specially.  O — only  w — w — went 
once,  t — to  1 — 1 — look  on,  you  know.  Th — thought  I'd 
1 — like  to  s — see  the  p — p — place  once.  I  did  n't  p — play. " 
Horry  shook  his  head.  ' '  I  h — have  n't  g — g — got  the  b — bug. 
Kn — n — new  I  w — was  safe." 


336  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Sally  seemed  to  be  puzzled.  "The  bug?  Do  you  mean — " 

"The  f — f — fever,  Sally,"  he  answered,  laughing  at  her 
bewilderment ;  ' '  the  sickness  —  disease  of  ga — ga — gam 
bling.  It's  j — j — just  as  much  a  dis — s — ease  as  the  small 
pox.  Or  c — con — sumption.  Th — that's  b — b — better, 
bee — c — cause  it  lasts  1 — 1 — onger  and  it  g — gets  w — w — 
worse  and  w — worse." 

Sally  sighed.  "  I  suppose  it  is  like  that.  It  must  be."  She 
looked  at  him  thoughtfully  for  so  long  a  time  that  Horry 
began  to  get  red  once  more  and  to  fidget  on  his  chair.  "There 
must  be  a  cure  for  it  if  we  could  only  find  it,"  she  murmured. 
"Horry,"  she  said  suddenly,  "do  you  suppose  Harry  would 
be  willing  to  keep  track  of  Charlie's  movements  —  without 
Charlie's  knowing,  I  mean?  For  a  while?" 

"Kn — n — now  he  w — would." 

"And  would  he  telegraph  me  when  Charlie  goes  into  that 
place  again  —  and  just  as  soon  as  he  can  find  out?  I  ought 
to  know  as  early  in  the  evening  as  possible  —  by  six  or  seven 
o'clock." 

"H — he  w — will  if  he  c — c — can  f — f — find  out  in  t — 
t — time.  W — w — would  n't  always  b — be  s — so  easy.  I  '11 
t — take  c — care  of  that,  Sally." 

"Thank  you.    I  shall  be  very  grateful  to  you  both." 

Sally  went  out  to  Doctor  Sanderson's  the  next  afternoon. 
Fox  saw  her  coming  and  went  to  meet  her. 

"  How  is  Patty,  Fox?  "  she  asked.  She  jumped  lightly  out 
of  the  carriage  and  stood  beside  him. 

He  seemed  distinctly  disappointed  at  the  question.  "So 
that  is  what  you  came  for,"  he  replied.  "I  hoped  it  might 
have  had  something  to  do  with  me."  He  sighed.  "Patty's 
all  right,  I  think.  Are  you  going  up  to  see  her?" 

Sally  shook  her  head.  "  I  came  to  see  you,  Fox.  I  want  to 
ask  your  advice." 

"That  changes  the  face  of  nature,"  he  returned  cheerfully. 
"Will  you  come  into  the  office  —  or  anywhere  else  that  you 
like." 

They  went  into  Fox's  office  and  he  got  her  settled  in  a 


CONCERNING  SALLY  337 

chair.  "That's  the  most  generally  comfortable  chair.  It's 
my  consultation  chair.  I  want  my  patients  to  be  as  comfort 
able  as  possible  before  they  begin." 

Sally  laughed  a  little.  ' '  Now,  you  sit  down  and  put  on  your 
professional  expression . 

"It  is  not  difficult  to  look  sympathetic  with  you,  in  ad 
vance,  Sally." 

"It  is  really  a  serious  matter."  She  was  silent  for  a  mo 
ment.  "Fox,"  she  said  then  abruptly,  "Charlie  has  been 
gambling." 

"Yes." 

"You  are  n't  surprised?" 

"No." 

"And  he  has  used  Patty's  money,  I  don't  doubt." 

"Yes." 

"Fox!"  she  cried  impatiently.  "Did  you  know  all  this 
before?  If  you  did,  I  think  you  might  have  told  me." 

"No,"  he  replied  gently,  "I  did  not  know  it.  I  only 
suspected  it.  You  had  as  much  reason  to  suspect  it  as  I 
had." 

Sally  shook  her  head.  "I  didn't  know  all  the  circum 
stances  —  about  Patty's  money,  for  instance.  I  'm  afraid 
she  gave  it  to  him.  I  don't  know  how  much." 

"Neither  do  I." 

"I  must  find  out  and  pay  her."  She  was  silent  again, 
leaning  her  chin  on  her  hand  and  gazing  at  Fox.  "  How  can 
I  find  out,  Fox?" 

"  I  hardly  know,  Sally."  He  was  silent,  in  his  turn.  " It's 
no  use  to  ask  her,  I  suppose.  You  might  ask  Dick  how  much 
was  —  er  —  unaccounted  for." 

"I  might."  She  nodded  with  satisfaction.  "I  will.  I 
shall  pay  it  back.  And  I  must  stop  Charlie's  gambling.  I  Ve 
got  to.  I've  thought  and  thought  —  for  a  whole  day." 
She  laughed  shortly.  "I'm  no  nearer  than  I  was  in  half 
an  hour.  Oh,  Fox,  tell  me  how." 

He  was  looking  at  her  with  a  great  pity  in  his  eyes.  He 
should  have  known  better.  Sally  did  not  like  to  be  pitied. 


338  CONCERNING   SALLY 

" It's  a  problem,  Sally.  I  'm  afraid  you  may  not  be  able  to 
stop  it  altogether  —  or  permanently." 

"  I  thought  it  might  do  if  —  but,  perhaps  I  'd  better  not 
tell  anybody  about  it  until  it's  done." 

"I  commend  that  idea,  in  general,"  Fox  replied,  smiling, 
"although  a  person  should  be  perfectly  frank  with  her  law 
yer  and  her  physician.  If  I  can  be  of  any  assistance  to 
you,  please  remember  that  nothing  would  please  me  better. 
Those  places  are  —  would  n't  be  easy  for  you  to  get  into. 
And,  Sally,  I  should  hate  to  think  of  your  trying  it.  Can't  I 
doit?" 

Sally  smiled  at  him  in  a  way  that  he  liked  very  much.  "  I 
have  no  idea  of  trying  to  get  in.  And,  Fox,  how  much  do 
you  know  of  those  places,  as  you  call  them?" 

"Not  much,  but  I  think  I  could  probably  get  in." 

"Thank  you,  Fox.  There  is  one  thing  that  you  can  do  and 
that  is  to  explain  to  me  why  Charlie  does  it.  Or,  I  suppose 
I  know  why  he  does,  but  explain  this  if  you  can.  Why 
have  n't  I  the  same  desire?  I  am  my  father's  daughter.  Why 
should  n't  I  want  to  gamble,  too,  instead  of  the  very  idea 
of  it  filling  me  with  disgust?" 

He  sat  for  some  time  with  a  half  smile  on  his  lips,  gazing 
at  Sally  and  saying  nothing.  Sally  looked  up  and  caught 
his  eye  and  looked  away  again. 

"Please  tell  me,  Fox,"  she  said. 

"A  question  of  heredity,  Sally!  Heredity  is  a  subject 
which  I  know  very  little  about.  Nobody  really  knows  much 
about  it,  for  that  matter.  A  few  experiments  with  peas  and 
guinea-pigs,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  a  great  deal  of  theorizing 
—  which  means  a  man's  ideas  of  what  ought  to  happen, made 
to  fit;  or  rather,  the  cases  chosen  to  fit  the  ideas.  And 
neither  helps  us  much  when  we  come  to  apply  them  to  such 
a  case  as  Charlie's.  But  do  you  really  want  me  to  tell  you 
what  I  think?  I'm  no  authority  and  the  whole  thing  is  a 
matter  of  guesswork.  You  might  guess  as  well  as  I  —  or 
better." 

She  nodded.    "I  should  like,  very  much,  to  know." 


CONCERNING  SALLY  339 

"Ah,  so  should  I,"  he  said.  "HI  only  knew!  I  don't.  But 
I  will  do  my  best.  Well,  then,  your  father  had  rather  a 
strong  character  — " 

"Oh,  Fox!"  she  protested. 

"He  did,"  he  insisted.  "Even  you  had  to  give  in  to  him 
sometimes,  and  you  are  the  only  one  in  your  family  who  ever 
stood  up  against  him — who  ever  could  have.  He  was  lacking 
in  the  sense  of  right,  and  he  had  depraved  tastes,  perhaps, 
but  his  tastes  grew  by  indulgence.  Your  mother  —  forgive 
me,  Sally  —  has  not  as  strong  a  character,  in  a  way,  but  her 
sense  of  right  is  strong.  Perhaps  her  traditions  are  as  strong." 
There  were  some  things  which  Fox  did  not  know.  If  he  had 
known  all  that  had  passed  in  Mrs.  Ladue's  heart  he  might 
not  have  spoken  so  confidently.  "You  have  your  mother's 
tastes,  —  irreproachable,  —  her  sense  of  right  and  your 
father's  strength ;  a  very  excellent  combination."  He  laughed 
gently.  "And  both  strengthened  by  your  early  experience. 
A  fiery  furnace,"  he  murmured,  "to  consume  the  dross." 

Sally  got  red  and  did  not  seem  pleased.  "Go  on,"  she 
said. 

"Charlie  got  your  father's  tastes  and  your  mother's  lack  of 
strength.  He  seems  to  have  no  sense  of  right.  He  was  most 
unfortunate.  He  did  n't  get  a  square  deal.  But  his  very 
weakness  gives  me  hope.  He  will  have  to  be  watched,  for  he 
may  break  away  at  any  time.  There  was  no  leading  your 
father,  even  in  the  way  he  wanted  to  go.  He  had  to  be  under 
strong  compulsion  —  driven." 

"Did  you  ever  drive  him,  Fox?" 

"Once,"  he  answered  briefly.    "It  was  no  fun." 

"I  remember  the  time."  She  sighed  and  rose  slowly. 
"Well—" 

Fox  rose  also.  "Had  enough  of  my  preaching,  Sally?  I 
don't  do  it  often  and  I  don't  wonder  you  don't  like  it." 

She  smiled  at  him  gravely  and  gave  him  her  hand.  "  I  'm 
greatly  obliged  to  you,  Fox.  If  you  can  help  me  I  will  ask 
you  to.  I  promise  you  that." 

He  held  her  hand  much  longer  than  was  at  all  necessary 


340  CONCERNING  SALLY 

and  he  gazed  down  at  her  with  a  longing  which  he  could  not 
hide.  Not  that  he  tried;  but  she  was  not  looking  at  him. 

"Promise  me  something  else,  Sally." 

Sally  glanced  up  at  him  in  surprise  at  his  voice.  "Any 
thing  that  I  can  do,  of  course,"  she  said. 

The  look  in  his  eyes  was  very  tender  —  and  pitying,  Sally 
thought.  "  Marry  me,  Sally.  Promise  me  that." 

It  was  sudden  and  unexpected,  to  be  sure,  but  was  there 
any  reason  why  the  quick  tears  should  have  rushed  to  Sally's 
eyes  and  why  she  should  have  looked  so  reproachfully  at 
him?  Ah,  Doctor  Sanderson,  you  have  made  a  mess  of  it 
now!  Sally  withdrew  her  hand  quickly. 

"Oh,  Fox!"  she  cried  low,  her  eyes  brimming.  "How 
could  you?  How  could  you?" 

He  had  hurt  her  somehow.  God  knew  that  he  had  not 
meant  to.  "Why,  Sally,"  he  began,  "I  only  wanted  — " 

"That's  just  it,"  she  said  quickly;  and  she  could  say  no 
more  and  she  bit  her  lip  and  turned  and  hurried  out,  leaving 
Fox  utterly  bewildered  and  gazing  after  her  as  if  he  were 
paralyzed. 

Sally  almost  ran  down  the  walk  and,  as  she  ran,  she  gave 
one  sob.  "He  was  only  sorry  for  me,"  she  said  to  herself; 
"he  only  pitied  me,  and  I  won't  be  pitied.  He  only  wanted 

—  to  help  me  bear  my  burdens.    Dear  Fox!"  she  thought, 
with  a  revulsion  of  feeling.    "  He  is  always  so  —  wanting  to 
help  me  bear  my  burdens.   Dear  Fox!   But  he  shall  be  true 

—  to  her,"  she  added  fiercely.    "Does  he  think  I  will  help 
him  to  be  untrue?   Oh,  Fox,  dear!" 

And,  biting  her  lip  again,  cruelly,  she  got  into  the  waiting 
carriage. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MR.  GILFEATHER'S  saloon  was  not  on  Avenue  C,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  the  Licensing  Board  tried  to 
confine  all  institutions  of  the  kind  to  that  historic 
boulevard.  Mr.  Gilfeather's  saloon,  to  use  his  own  words, 
was  a  "  high-toned  and  classy  place."  In  consequence  of  that 
fact  and  perhaps  on  the  condition  implied  in  the  term, 
Mr.  Gilfeather  was  permitted  to  conduct  his  high-toned  and 
classy  place  on  a  street  where  he  would  have  no  competition. 
It  was  a  little  side  street,  hardly  more  than  a  court,  and  there 
was  no  church  within  several  hundred  feet  and  no  school 
within  several  thousand.  The  little  street  was  called  Gil- 
feather's  Court,  and  not  by  its  own  name,  which  I  have  for 
gotten;  the  narrow  sidewalk  from  Main  Street  to  Mr.  Gil- 
feather's  door  was  well  trodden ;  and  that  door  was  marked 
by  day  by  a  pair  of  scraggy  and  ill-conditioned  bay  trees 
and  by  night  by  a  modest  light,  in  addition. 

Mr.  Gilfeather  may  have  been  grieved  by  the  condition 
of  the  bay  trees,  which  were  real  trees,  if  trees  which  have 
their  roots  in  shallow  tubs  can  be  called  real.  At  all  events, 
he  had  resolved  to  add -to  the  classy  appearance  of  his  place, 
and  to  that  end  he  had  concluded  arrangements  with  the 
Everlasting  Decorating  Company  for  certain  palms  and 
ferns,  duly  set  in  tubs  of  earth,  —  the  earth  was  not  impor 
tant  except  as  it  helped  in  the  illusion,  —  which  ferns  and 
palms  were  warranted  not  to  be  affected  by  heat,  dryness, 
or  the  fumes  of  alcohol,  and  to  require  no  care  except  an 
occasional  dusting.  The  men  of  the  Everlasting  Decorat 
ing  Company  had  just  finished  the  artistic  disposal  of  these 
palms  and  ferns  —  as  ordered  —  about  the  little  mahogany 
tables,  giving  to  each  table  a  spurious  air  of  seclusion,  and 
had  gone  away,  smiling  and  happy,  having  been  treated  by 
Mr.  Gilfeather,  very  properly,  to  whatever  they  liked.  Mr. 


342  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Gilfeather  wandered  now  among  his  new  possessions,  chang 
ing  this  palm  by  a  few  inches  and  that  fern  by  the  least 
fraction  of  an  inch  and,  altogether,  lost  in  admiring  con 
templation. 

What  if  the  glossy  green  leaves  were  nothing  but  var 
nished  green  paper?  What  if  the  stems  were  nothing  but 
fibre  with  a  covering  of  the  varnished  paper  here  and  there? 
What  else  were  the  real  stems  made  of  anyway?  And  the 
light  in  the  interior  of  Mr.  Gilfeather's  was  rather  dim, 
having  to  filter  in  through  his  small  front  windows  after 
passing  the  tall  blank  wall  of  the  building  opposite,  and  — 
well  —  his  admiration  was  not  undeserved,  on  the  whole. 
He  came  back  and  leaned  against  the  bar.  The  bar  was  by 
no  means  the  feature  of  the  room.  It  was  small  and  modest, 
but  of  solid  San  Domingo  mahogany.  Mr.  Gilfeather  did 
not  want  his  customers  to  drink  at  the  bar.  He  preferred 
that  they  should  sit  at  the  tables. 

"How  is  it,  Joe?"  he  asked,  turning  to  the  white-coated 
barkeeper.  "Pretty  good,  eh?" 

The  silent  barkeeper  nodded. 

"Switch  on  the  lights  over  in  that  corner,"  Mr.  Gilfeather 
ordered,  "and  let's  see  how  she  looks."  Joe  stopped  wiping 
his  glasses  long  enough  to  turn  to  a  row  of  buttons.  "That's 
good.  Put 'em  all  on."  Joe  put 'em  all  on.  "  That 's  better. 
Now,"  turning  to  wave  his  hand  upward  over  the  bar, 
"light  her  up." 

At  his  command  there  appeared  on  the  wall  over  the  bar, 
a  large  painting  of  a  lady  clad  chiefly  in  a  leopard  skin  and 
luxuriant  golden  hair  and  a  charming  smile.  The  lady  was 
made  visible  by  electric  lights,  screened  and  carefully  dis 
posed,  and  seemed  to  diffuse  her  presence  impartially  over 
the  room.  Unfortunately,  there  was  nobody  to  admire  but 
Mr.  Gilfeather  and  Joe,  the  barkeeper,  and  there  is  some 
doubt  about  Joe's  admiration;  but  she  did  not  seem  to 
mind  and  she  continued  to  smile.  As  they  looked,  the  outer 
door  opened  silently  and  closed  again.  Mr.  Gilfeather  and 
Joe,  warned  by  the  sudden  draught,  turned. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  343 

"Hello,  Ev,"  said  Mr.  Gilfeather.  "What  do  you  think 
of  it?"  He  waved  his  hand  inclusively.  "Just  got  'em." 

Everett  inspected  the  palms  and  ferns  solemnly.  "Very 
pretty.  Very  good.  It  seems  to  be  good,  strong  paper  and 
well  varnished.  I  don't  see  any  imitation  rubber  plants. 
Where  are  your  rubber  plants?" 

"Eh?"  asked  Mr.  Gilfeather,  puzzled.  "Don't  you  like 
it?  They  could  have  furnished  rubber  plants,  I  s'pose. 
Think  I  ought  to  have  'em?" 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind  is  complete  without  rubber  plants," 
Everett  replied  seriously. 

Mr.  Gilfeather  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  "Don't  you 
like  'em,  Ev?"  he  asked.  It  was  almost  a  challenge. 
Mr.  Gilfeather  was  nettled  and  inclined  to  be  hostile.  If 
Everett  was  making  fun  of  him  —  well,  he  had  better  look 
out. 

"It's  hardly  up  to  your  standard,  Tom,"  he  answered. 
He  indicated  the  lady  in  the  leopard  skin  —  and  in  her  own 
—  who  still  smiled  sweetly  down  at  them.  "After  I  have 
gone  to  the  trouble  of  selecting  paintings  for  you,  it  —  er  — 
would  be  natural  to  expect  that  you  would  consult  me  be 
fore  adding  a  lot  of  cheap  paper  flowers  to  your  decorations. 
I  should  have  been  happy  to  advise  you." 

"Nothing  cheap  about  'em,"  growled  Mr.  Gilfeather. 
"Had  to  have  something  in  here." 

"What's  the  matter  with  real  palms  and  ferns?" 

"What  would  they  cost,  I  should  like  to  know?  And 
how  would  I  keep  "em  looking  decent?  Look  at  them  bay 
trees  out  there." 

"Those  bay  trees  do  look  a  little  dejected,"  Everett 
agreed,  smiling.  "I  should  employ  a  good  gardener  to  care 
for  them  and  for  your  real  palms  and  ferns.  Our  gardener, 
I  am  sure,  could  — " 

"  I  don't  s'pose  your  gardener  'd  do  it  for  me  now,  would 
he?" 

Everett  smiled  again.  "Hardly.  But  he's  not  the  only 
one  in  town.  It  might  cost  more,  Tom,  but  it  would  pay, 


344  CONCERNING  SALLY 

believe  me.  Your  bar,  now,  is  the  real  thing  and  in  good 
taste.  You  ought  to  have  things  in  keeping." 

Mr.  Gilfeather  emitted  a  growl  and  looked  almost  as  de 
jected  as  his  bay  trees.  Everett  laughed  and  moved  toward 
a  door  beside  the  bar. 

"Anybody  up  there  yet,  Tom?"  he  asked. 

Mr.  Gilfeather  shook  his  head.  "I'll  send  'em  up." 
Everett  opened  the  door  and  they  heard  his  steps  going  up 
the  stairs.  "Hell!"  said  Mr.  Gilfeather. 

Joe  smiled  sympathetically,  but  said  nothing. 

It  was  getting  towards  noon  and  customers  began  to 
straggle  in  singly  or  by  twos  and  threes.  Certain  of  these 
customers  were  warned  by  Mr.  Gilfeather's  thumb,  pointing 
directly  upward,  and  vanished.  The  others  had  chosen 
their  favorite  tables  and  had  been  waited  upon  by  two 
white-aproned  and  silent  youths,  who  had  appeared  mysteri 
ously  from  nowhere.  The  room  gradually  filled  and  gradu 
ally  emptied  again,  but  there  was  no  sign  of  Everett  and  his 
friends.  Mr.  Gilfeather  went  to  his  dinner  and  came  back 
a  little  after  two  o'clock.  The  high-toned  and  classy  place 
showed  few  customers  present.  It  was  a  slack  time.  Two 
men,  at  a  table  behind  a  mammoth  paper  fern,  were  drink 
ing  whiskey  and  water  and  talking  earnestly;  another, 
hidden  by  a  friendly  palm,  was  consuming,  in  a  leisurely 
manner,  a  hot  Tom  and  Jerry;  another,  tilting  his  chair 
back  in  the  far  corner,  read  the  early  afternoon  paper  and 
sipped  his  ale;  and  one  of  our  white-aproned  friends  van 
ished  through  the  door  beside  the  bar  with  a  tray  containing 
five  different  mixtures  of  the  most  modern  varieties,  of 
which  I  do  not  know  the  names.  Mr.  Gilfeather  looked 
about  on  his  despised  decorations  and  sighed;  and  the  outer 
door  opened  again  and  admitted  Miss  Sally  Ladue. 

Mr.  Gilfeather  half  turned,  in  response  to  a  smothered  ex 
clamation  from  Joe,  turned  again,  and  cast  a  startled  glance 
up  at  the  smiling  lady  over  the  bar. 

"Switch  'em  off,  Joe,  quick!"  and  Joe  switched  'em  off, 
leaving  the  lady  with  her  leopard  skin  in  murky  darkness, 


CONCERNING  SALLY  345 

which,  under  the  circumstances,  was  the  best  place  for  her. 
But  he  had  not  been  quick  enough. 

Sally's  color  was  rather  high  as  she  stood  just  inside  the 
door.  Nothing  but  palms  and  ferns  —  very  lifelike  —  met 
her  eyes;  nothing,  that  is,  except  a  very  chaste  bar  of  San 
Domingo  mahogany  and  the  persons  of  Joe  and  Mr.  Gil- 
feather.  The  lady  in  the  leopard  skin  no  longer  met  her  eyes, 
for  that  lady  had  been  plunged  in  gloom,  as  we  are  aware. 
Sally,  too,  was  aware  of  it.  Mr.  Gilfeather  had  a  guilty 
consciousness  of  it  as  he  advanced. 

"Good  afternoon,  Miss  Ladue,"  he  said,  somewhat  appre 
hensively.  "I  hope  nothing  is  going  wrong  with  my 
daughter?" 

"  No,  Mr.  Gilfeather,"  replied  Sally,  hastening  to  reassure 
him.  "She  is  doing  very  well,  and  I  expect  that  she  will 
graduate  well  up  in  her  class." 

Mr.  Gilfeather  was  evidently  relieved  to  hear  it. 

"I  came  to  consult  you,"  continued  Sally;  "to  ask  your 
advice."  She  looked  about  her.  The  room  was  very  quiet, 
much  quieter  than  her  own  room  at  school,  for  the  two  men 
drinking  whiskey  and  water  had  stopped  their  talking,  upon 
Sally's  entrance.  It  had  been  no  more  than  a  low  hum  of 
voices,  at  most,  and  the  man  with  his  Tom  and  Jerry  made 
no  more  noise  than  did  the  man  sipping  his  ale  and  reading 
his  paper.  Sally  thought  that  she  would  like  to  have  Patty 
glance  in  there  for  a  minute. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Gilfeather  slowly,  "perhaps  I  can  find  a 
place  where  we  can  talk  without  interruption.  Will  you  — " 

"Why  can't  we  sit  down  behind  some  of  these  lovely 
palms?"  asked  Sally  hastily. 

Mr.  Gilfeather  looked  at  her  quickly.  He  was  sensitive  on 
the  subject  of  palms  and  ferns  —  everlasting  ones,  furnished 
by  the  Everlasting  Decorating  Company.  But  Sally  seemed 
unconscious.  His  suspicions  were  unfounded.  He  nodded 
and  led  the  way,  and  Sally  followed,  penetrating  the  seclu 
sion  of  three  of  the  customers,  to  a  table  in  another  corner. 
Sally  sat  down  and  Mr.  Gilfeather  sat  opposite. 


346  CONCERNING  SALLY 

He  hesitated.  "  I  suppose  you  would  n't  do  me  the  honor 
to  take  something  with  me,  now?"  he  asked.  Sally  smiled 
and  shook  her  head.  "A  glass  of  lemonade  or  a  cup  of  tea? 
I  can  have  tea  in  a  minute  —  good  tea,  too,  Miss  Ladue." 

"Why,  thank  you,  Mr.  Gilfeather.  I  can't  see  any  reason 
why  I  should  n't  take  a  cup  of  tea  with  you.  I  should  like  it 
very  much." 

He  leaned  back,  crooked  his  finger  at  a  white-aproned 
youth,  and  gave  his  order.  One  would  not  imagine,  from 
any  sign  that  the  youth  gave,  that  it  was  not  quite  the  usual 
order.  As  Mr.  Gilfeather  had  promised,  in  less  than  a 
minute  it  was  on  the  table :  tea  and  sugar  and  sliced  lemon 
and  cream. 

"We  have  a  good  many  orders  for  tea,"  remarked  Mr. 
Gilfeather,  in  answer  to  Sally's  look  of  surprise.  "  I  try  to 
have  the  best  of  every  kind." 

Sally  helped  herself  to  a  lump  of  sugar  and  a  slice  of  lemon. 
"  I  must  confess  that  I  did  n't  suppose  you  ever  had  an  order 
for  tea." 

"Yes,"  he  replied  thoughtfully.  "  But  we  don't  often  have 
customers  like  you,  Miss  Ladue.  It  is  an  honor  which  I 
appreciate." 

"But,"  Sally  interposed,  "you  don't  know,  yet,  what  my 
errand  is." 

"It  don't  make  no  difference  what  your  errand  is,"  said 
Mr.  Gilfeather;  "your  visit  honors  me.  Whatever  you  ask 
my  advice  about,  I  '11  give  you  my  best  and  thank  you  for 
coming  to  me." 

Sally  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  in  her  eyes.  "What  I 
wanted  to  see  you  about,  Mr.  Gilfeather,  was  gambling. 
Do—" 

"What?"  asked  the  astonished  Mr.  Gilfeather,  with  a 
penetrating  look  at  Sally.  "You  ain't  going  to  — " 

Sally  laughed  outright,  attracting  to  herself  the  attention 
of  the  two  whiskey-and-waters.  Tom  and  Jerry  was  con 
sumed  and  had  just  gone  out. 

"No,"  she  said  merrily,  "  I 'm  not  going  to.  I  only  meant 


CONCERNING  SALLY  347 

that  I  wanted  to  see  —  to  know  whether  you  knew  about 
it." 

"Whether  I  knew  about  it!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Gilfeather, 
more  puzzled  than  ever.  He  glanced  up  fearfully  as  a  slight 
noise  came  down  to  them  from  above.  "  I  never  play,  if  you 
mean  that.  Of  course,  I  know  something  about  it.  Any 
man  in  my  business  can't  help  knowing  something  about 
it." 

"Well,"  Sally  resumed,  "I  wonder  whether  it  would  be 
possible  for  —  for  me,  for  instance,  to  get  in ;  to  see  the  in 
side  of  a  place  where  it  is  going  on.  I  don't  know  anything 
about  it  and  I  did  n't  know  anybody  to  ask  but  you." 

Mr.  Gilfeather  cast  another  apprehensive  glance  at  the 
ceiling.  Then  he  looked  down  again  and  gazed  thoughtfully 
at  Sally  out  of  half-shut  eyes. 

"I  should  think,"  he  observed  slowly,  "that  it  would  be 
difficult ;  very  difficult,  indeed.  I  should  say  that  it  might  be 
impossible.  What  particular  place  did  you  have  in  mind? 
That  is,  if  it's  a  proper  question." 

"That's  just  the  trouble,"  Sally  replied,  frowning.  "I 
don't  know,  although  I  can  find  out.  I  did  n't  think  of  that. 
It 's  a  place  where  college  boys  go,  sometimes,"  she  added, 
flushing  slowly. 

"In  Boston,  eh?"  Mr.  Gilfeather's  brow  cleared  and  his 
eyes  opened  again.  The  color  in  Sally's  face  had  not  escaped 
him.  "It's  my  advice,  Miss  Ladue,  that  you  give  it  up.  I 
don't  know  anything  about  them  Boston  places  —  I  would 
say  those  places  —  or  I  'd  offer  to  go  for  you.  Perhaps  I  can 
guess — " 

"It's  my  brother,"  said  Sally  simply. 

Mr.  Gilfeather  nodded.  "  I  'd  heard  it  or  I  should  n't  have 
spoken  of  it,"  he  said  gently.  "  I  'm  very  sorry,  Miss  Ladue. 
Nobody  else  shall  hear  of  it  from  me." 

"I'm  afraid  that  will  make  very  little  difference,"  she 
remarked,  "but  I  thank  you." 

Mr.  Gilfeather  was  silent  for  some  moments  while  Sally 
sipped  her  tea, 


348  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Haven't  you  got  any  gentleman  friend,"  he  asked  at 
last,  "who  would  do  your  errand  for  you?" 

"I  don't  know  who  would  be  the  most  likely  to  —  to 
know  the  way  about,"  she  returned.  "  I  can't  very  well  ask 
for  bids."  She  smiled  quickly.  "  If  I  knew  the  best  person  to 
ask  I  would  ask  him." 

"That  you  would,"  Mr.  Gilfeather  murmured  admiringly. 
"You  ain't  afraid.  Do  you  want  me  to  suggest? "  he  asked. 

"I  hoped  you  would  be  willing  to." 

"Well,  how  would  Everett  Morton  do?  I  guess  he  knows 
his  way  about.  I  always  understood  that  he  did."  Mr. 
Gilfeather  smiled  furtively.  The  matter  of  the  palms 
rankled. 

Sally  looked  reflective.  "  If  he  is  the  best  man  to  do  it  I  '11 
ask  him."  She  sighed.  She  felt  a  strange  repugnance  to 
asking  him  —  for  that  service.  She  had  finished  her  tea  and 
Mr.  Gilfeather  had  finished  his.  "Well,"  she  said,  rising 
slowly,  "  I  thank  you  for  your  advice,  Mr.  Gilfeather,  —  and 
for  your  tea,"  she  added,  "which  I  have  enjoyed." 

"The  honor  is  mine,"  returned  Mr.  Gilfeather  gallantly. 

Sally  smiled  and  bowed  and  was  on  her  way  to  the  door. 
"Miss  Ladue,"  called  Mr.  Gilfeather.  She  stopped  and 
turned.  "  I  wish  you  would  be  kind  enough  to  favor  me  with 
a  bit  of  advice,  too." 

"Gladly,"  said  Sally.   "What  about?" 

Mr.  Gilfeather  came  close  and  spoke  low.  "It's  these 
palms  and  ferns.  I  got  'em  this  morning.  Might  I  ask  your 
opinion  of  'em?" 

"Surely,  they're  very  nice  and  attractive,"  said  Sally 
doubtfully. 

He  remarked  the  doubt.  "You  don't  really  think  that. 
Now,  do  you?  Would  n't  real  ones  be  more  —  more  high- 
toned,  as  you  might  say?  I  was  advised  that  —  paper 
flowers,  he  called  'em  —  were  n't  in  keeping.  Would  you 
advise  me  to  take  'em  out  and  put  in  real  ones?" 

"Oh,"  Sally  answered  quickly,  " I  can't  advise  you  about 
that.  Real  ones  would  be  more  expensive  to  keep  in  order, 


CONCERNING  SALLY  349 

but  they  would  be  better.  Don't  you  think  so  your 
self?  " 

Mr.  Gilfeather  sighed.  "These '11  have  to  come  out,"  he 
said  sadly.  "They'll  have  to  come  out,  I  guess.  It's  hard 
luck  that  I  did  n't  think  of  asking  before  I  got  'em.  But  I  'm 
much  obliged  to  you,  Miss  Ladue." 

Sally  nodded  again  and  went  out.  The  door  had  hardly 
shut  behind  her  when  the  man  who  had  been  sipping  his  ale 
and  reading  his  paper  emerged  from  his  corner  hastily  and 
put  out  after  her.  It  was  Eugene  Spencer. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IT  was  almost  time  for  the  theatres  to  be  out.  Indeed,  the 
first  few  men  were  coming  out  of  one,  hurriedly  putting 
on  their  coats  as  they  came.  As  the  doors  swung  open 
the  beginnings  of  the  subdued  roar  of  a  slowly  moving 
crowd  came  out.  A  man  and  a  girl  who  were  walking  briskly 
past  heard  it. 

"Hurry,  Jane!"  exclaimed  the  girl  anxiously.  "I  did  n't 
know  it  was  so  late." 

Jane  muttered  something  about  crowds,  but  it  was 
nothing  very  articulate.  To  tell  the  truth,  Jane  was  nervous 
and  he  did  not  know  just  what  he  was  saying.  Neither  did 
Sally.  She  did  not  listen,  for  that  matter,  for  she  was  wholly 
occupied  with  her  errand.  They  quickened  their  pace  until 
they  were  almost  running,  and  the  noise  was  gradually  left 
behind.  Neither  of  them  spoke;  and  when  they  had  turned 
the  first  corner  they  both  sighed  and  the  pace  slackened  to 
that  brisk  walk  again. 

Sally  had  not  had  to  overcome  her  repugnance  to  asking 
Everett,  and  Mr.  Gilfeather's  feeling  of  triumph  was  a  little 
premature.  When  Jane  had  overtaken  her,  a  few  steps  from 
Mr.  Gilfeather's  door  and  had  asked  whether  he  could  not 
help  her,  she  had  yielded  to  her  impulse  and  had  answered 
that  he  probably  could  if  he  would.  And  Jane  had  confessed, 
getting  a  little  red,  —  who  would  not  have  got  a  little  red, 
having  to  make  such  a  confession  to  the  girl  he  was  in  love 
with,  even  yet?  —  he  had  confessed  that  he  was  qualified 
sufficiently  for  the  expedition,  for  he  had  been  in  number 
seven  on  two  occasions,  on  the  first  of  which  he  had  played. 
But,  he  added,  he  had  not  lost  much  —  fortunately  for  him, 
perhaps,  he  had  not  won  —  and  he  had  had  no  desire  to  play 
again,  although  he  had  felt  some  curiosity  to  see  others  do  it. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  351 

It  was  worth  while,  for  once,  to  see  that  side  of  human  nature. 
Sally  began  to  tell  him  why  she  wanted  to  go,  but  he  stopped 
her. 

"  I  know,  Sally,"  he  said  gently.  "You  don't  have  to  tell 
me.  I  am  glad  to  be  of  any  assistance  at  all."  And  Sally  had 
thanked  him  and  had  liked  him  better  at  that  moment  than 
she  ever  had  before.  It  was  a  pity  that  Jane  could  not  know 
that. 

Two  days  later  Harry  Carling  had  telegraphed ;  and  here 
they  were,  just  turning  the  last  corner  and  finding  them 
selves  in  the  Street.  I  don't  give  the  name  of  the  street  for 
reasons  which  must  be  obvious  enough,  but,  irrespective  of 
the  name,  Sally's  heart  beat  a  little  faster  when  they  turned 
into  it.  Jane's  heart  would  have  beat  faster  if  it  had  not 
already  accelerated  its  beat  quite  as  much  as  it  could  with 
safety.  He  was  finding  it  in  his  mouth  most  of  the  time  and 
had  to  swallow  frequently  and  hard  to  keep  it  down  where 
it  belonged.  As  for  speaking  calmly  and  naturally,  that  was 
out  of  the  question.  That  was  enough  to  account  for  his 
prolonged  silence.  When  he  did  make  the  attempt  his  voice 
was  high  and  shrill  and  he  hesitated  and  could  not  say  what 
he  wanted  to. 

It  was  a  quiet  street,  entirely  deserted  at  that  end,  and  it 
was  lined  with  dignified  old  houses  which  echoed  the  sound 
of  their  footfalls  until  their  coming  seemed  the  invasion  of  an 
army. 

"Mercy!"  Sally  cried  nervously,  under  her  breath. 
' '  What  a  racket  we  're  making ! ' '  And  the  sound  of  her  voice 
reverberated  from  side  to  side.  The  army  had  begun  to  talk. 
That  would  never  do.  "Silence  in  the  ranks!"  thought 
Sally;  and  was  surprised  that  her  thought  was  not  echoed, 
too.  Jane  began  to  laugh  excitedly,  but  stopped  at  once. 

The  street  was  very  respectable,  anybody  would  have  said ; 
eminently  respectable.  It  even  seemed  dignified.  There  is 
no  doubt  that  there  had  been  a  time  when  it  had  been  both 
respectable  and  dignified  and  had  not  contented  itself  with 
seeming  so.  The  houses  had  been  built  at  that  time  and  pre- 


352  CONCERNING  SALLY 

sented  their  rather  severe  brick  fronts  to  the  street,  giving 
an  effect  that  was  almost  austere.  They  were  absolutely 
without  ornament,  excepting,  perhaps,  in  their  inconspicu 
ous  but  generous  entrances.  Altogether,  Sally  thought  the 
effect  was  distinctly  pleasing.  She  would  have  been  glad  to 
live  in  one  of  these  houses;  for  example,  in  that  one  with  the 
wide  recessed  doorway  with  the  fan  over  it.  It  was  dark 
now;  dark  as  a  pocket.  Not  a  light  showed  at  any  of  the 
windows,  although  a  dim  one  —  a  very  dim  one  —  burned 
over  the  door.  The  people  must  be  all  in  bed  at  this  season 
able  hour,  like  good  custom-abiding  people.  There  might 
have  been  a  special  curfew  at  nine  o'clock  for  this  special 
street. 

"That  is  the  house,"  whispered  Jane,  pointing  with  a 
hand  which  was  not  very  steady  to  the  very  house  that 
Sally  had  been  contemplating  with  admiration.  It  was  not 
light  enough  for  Sally  to  note  the  shaking  of  his  hand. 

The  announcement  was  a  shock  to  Sally.  "What?"  she 
asked  incredulously.  "You  don't  mean  the  house  with  the 
dim  light  over  the  door  —  the  one  with  the  fan!"  Jane 
nodded  assent.  "Why,"  Sally  continued,  "there  isn't  a 
light  in  the  house,  so  far  as  I  can  see." 

Jane  laughed.  His  laugh  echoed  strangely  and  he  stopped 
suddenly.  "There  are  plenty  of  lights,  just  the  same.  What 
did  you  expect?  A  general  illumination  —  with  a  band?  " 

"Something  more  than  a  dark  house,"  she  replied,  smiling 
a  little.  "It  looks  as  if  they  had  all  gone  to  bed." 

He  shook  his  head.  "They  have  n't  gone  to  bed."  Their 
pace  had  slackened  and  had  become  no  more  than  an  aim 
less  saunter.  Now  they  stopped  entirely,  almost  opposite 
the  house. 

"Well,"  said  Sally  inquiringly,  "what  now?" 

Jane  breathed  a  long  sigh.  "I  —  I  suppose  i  —  it 's  up  to 
me,"  he  replied  hesitatingly,  "to  go  in."  He  spoke  with  very 
evident  regret;  then  he  laughed  shortly. 

"Don't  you  want  to?"  asked  Sally  curiously. 

"No,  I  don't,  Sally,"  he  rejoined  decidedly.   "I  certainly 


CONCERNING   SALLY  353 

don't.  But  I  want  to  help  you,  and  therefore  I  do.  It  would 
be  hard  to  make  you  understand,  perhaps,  and  — " 

"I  think  I  understand,  Eugene,"  she  interrupted  gently, 
"and  you  need  n't  think  that  I 'm  not  grateful." 

"I  don't  feel  as  confident  as  I  ought,"  he  said  apologeti 
cally,  "that  I  shall  be  successful.  What  if  Charlie  won't 
come?" 

"You  can  tell  him,"  she  replied  firmly,  "that  I  shall  wait 
here  until  he  does  come.  It  is  n't  likely  that  I  shall  be  put  off 
the  street." 

Spencer  did  not  feel  so  sure  of  that  as  he  would  have  liked 
to  feel,  but  he  did  not  say  so  to  Sally.  "That  brings  up 
another  question,"  he  said.  "Where  shall  you  wait?  And 
what  will  you  do  —  in  case  I  am  longer  than  you  expect?  I 
confess  that  I  am  uneasy  about  you  —  waiting  around  the 
streets  —  alone." 

"You  need  n't  be,"  she  returned.  "Of  course,"  she  ad 
mitted,  "it  won't  be  pleasant.  I  don't  expect  it  to  be.  But 
I  shall  be  all  right,  I'm  sure." 

He  sighed  once  more  and  looked  at  her.  "  I  wish  I  felt  as 
sure  of  it  as  you  do.  But  I  '11  go  in  —  or  try  to."  He  looked 
the  street  up  and  down.  "You'd  better  get  in  the  shadow, 
somewhere;  well  in  the  shadow.  Their  doorman  has  sharp 
eyes.  That's  what  he's  there  for,"  he  added  in  response  to 
her  questioning  look.  " Perhaps  you'd  better  not  be  within 
view  when  I  go  in.  We  '11  walk  back  a  bit  and  I  '11  leave 
you  there." 

She  assented  and  they  walked  back  until  they  were  out  of 
sight  from  the  door  with  the  dim  light  burning  over  it.  Then 
Spencer  left  her  and  walked  rapidly  toward  the  house.  He 
looked  back  two  or  three  times.  She  was  standing  just 
where  he  had  left  her :  close  beside  a  woebegone  tree  with  an 
iron  tree-guard  around  it.  It  was  a  forgotten  relic  of  other 
days.  Her  motionless  figure  could  hardly  be  distinguished 
from  the  tree  as  she  leaned  against  the  guard.  He  opened 
the  outer  door  of  the  vestibule.  A  second  dim  light  was 
burning  here,  just  enabling  him  to  see  the  push-button. 


354  CONCERNING   SALLY 

With  a  heart  palpitating  somewhat  and  with  that  horrible, 
gone  feeling  in  the  region  of  his  diaphragm,  he  rang  the  bell. 
The  outer  door  closed  noiselessly  behind  him  and  two  elec 
tric  lights  flashed  out  brilliantly  before  him.  The  inner  door, 
which  gave  entrance  to  the  house,  was  a  massive  thing, 
studded  with  iron  bolts,  like  the  gate  of  a  castle;  and  at  the 
level  of  his  face  was  a  little  grated  window  or  door  of  solid 
wood  within  the  larger,  iron-studded  door.  In  response  to 
his  ring  the  inner  door  did  not  open,  but  the  little  grated 
window  did,  framing,  behind  iron  bars,  the  impassive  face 
of  a  gigantic  negro,  who  scrutinized  Spencer  with  the  eye  of 
experience  and,  having  completed  his  inspection,  nodded 
solemnly.  The  little  grated  window  closed  and  the  electric 
lights  went  out  suddenly;  and  the  door  opened  before  him 
and  closed  again  behind  him,  leaving  everything  in  readiness 
for  the  next  comer ;  and  leaving  Sally  standing  alone  beside 
that  woebegone  tree  without. 

There  was  nothing  unusual  about  the  appearance  of  the 
house  if  we  except  the  iron-studded  door  and  its  guardian. 
The  negro,  who  was  very  large  and  very  black,  had  resumed 
his  seat  upon  a  stool  by  the  door.  He  glanced  at  Eugene 
without  interest  and  immediately  looked  away  again  and 
seemed  to  resume  his  thoughts  about  nothing  at  all.  Eugene 
glanced  hastily  about.  The  house  might  have  served  as  a 
type  of  the  modest  dwellings  of  the  older  school.  The  doors 
from  the  lower  hall  were  all  shut  and  the  rooms  to  which  they 
led  were  empty,  so  far  as  he  knew,  or  were  used  as  store 
rooms,  perhaps.  Everything  was  very  quiet  and  he  and  the 
gigantic  negro  might  have  been  the  only  occupants  of  the 
house.  Before  him  was  the  staircase  and  he  roused  himself 
and  mounted  to  the  floor  above,  walked  a  few  steps  along  a 
hall  exactly  similar  to  the  first,  parted  the  heavy  double 
hangings  over  a  doorway,  and  entered. 

He  found  himself  in  the  front  room  of  two  which  were 
connected  by  folding  doors,  which  were  now  rolled  back. 
The  room  in  the  rear  was  but  dimly  lighted,  as  no  one  seemed 
to  be  interested  in  the  roulette  table  which  stood  there,  al- 


CONCERNING  SALLY  355 

though  several  men  stood  about  the  sideboard  or  were  coming 
or  going.  The  top  of  that  sideboard  held  a  large  variety  of 
bottles  and  anybody  present  was  at  liberty  to  help  himself 
to  whatever  he  preferred;  but,  although  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  drinking,  there  was  no  drunkenness.  Drinking  to 
excess  was  not  conducive  to  success  in  play;  and  the  men, 
most  of  them,  seemed  to  be  regular  patrons  of  the  place. 
Eugene's  gaze  wandered  back  toward  the  front  of  the  house. 

To  his  right,  as  he  entered,  was  the  centre  of  interest.  In 
deed,  it  seemed  to  be  the  only  point  of  interest.  The  windows 
had  heavy  double  hangings  before  them,  which  accounted 
for  Sally's  impression  of  the  house.  Directly  before  these 
windows  and  taking  up  almost  the  whole  width  of  the  room 
stood  a  large  table.  About  this  table  were  seated  a  dozen 
men  or  more,  old,  middle-aged,  and  young,  every  one  of 
them  so  intent  on  the  play  that  they  noticed  nothing  else. 
About  the  seated  men,  in  turn,  were  other  men,  two  or  three 
deep,  equally  intent,  standing  and  carefully  noting  upon  large 
cards  which  they  held  every  card  that  the  dealer  exposed 
from  the  box  before  him.  I  regret  that  I  am  unable  to  ex 
plain  more  fully  the  mysteries  of  this  system  of  scoring. 
In  some  way,  which  I  do  not  understand,  this  method  of 
keeping  score  was  supposed  to  give  some  clue  to  the  way  in 
which  the  cards  were  running  on  that  particular  night  and  to 
aid  each  scorer  in  the  development  of  his  "system,"  which, 
as  the  merest  tyro  knows,  will  inevitably  break  the  bank 
sooner  or  later ;  —  usually  later.  The  house  supplied  the 
score  cards.  They  found  the  method  a  very  satisfactory  one. 

By  this  time  Eugene's  heart  had  almost  ceased  its  pal 
pitation  and  he  could  look  about  with  some  approach  to 
calmness  at  the  group  around  the  table.  Curiously,  he 
scanned  the  faces  of  the  players.  At  the  turn  of  the  table,  to 
the  right  of  the  dealer,  sat  an  elderly  man,  perhaps  nearing 
sixty,  with  a  singularly  peaceful  countenance.  He  won  or 
lost  with  the  same  indifference,  only  putting  up  a  hand,  now 
and  then,  to  stroke  his  white  mustache  and  glancing,  sym 
pathetically,  Spencer  thought,  at  the  only  really  young  men 


356  CONCERNING  SALLY 

playing.  There  were  two  of  them  who  were  hardly  more  than 
boys,  and  this  man  seemed  to  be  more  interested  in  their 
play  than  in  his  own.  At  the  dealer's  left  sat  a  man  who 
might  be  anywhere  from  thirty-five  to  fifty,  with  a  clean 
shaven  and  handsome  clean  cut  face.  He  looked  as  distin 
guished  in  his  way  as  the  elderly  man  of  the  white  mustache 
and  the  peaceful  countenance  did  in  his.  He  smiled  as 
quietly  when  he  lost  as  when  he  won.  Both  men  were  very 
attractive  and  not  the  type  of  man  you  would  expect  to  find 
in  such  a  place.  The  other  men  there  were  not  attractive. 
They  were  of  no  particular  age  and  of  no  distinction  what 
ever  ;  the  type  of  man  that  you  pass  on  the  street  a  hundred 
times  a  day  without  a  second  glance  —  if  you  have  given 
the  first.  There  was  a  perennial  frown  upon  their  foreheads 
and  their  lips  were  tightly  closed  and  they  were  intent  on 
nothing  but  their  play.  Altogether,  the  less  said  about  those 
men,  the  better. 

The  first  of  the  two  young  men  mentioned  was  sitting 
at  the  turn  of  the  table  diagonally  opposite  the  elderly  man 
and  nearest  Eugene,  so  that  his  face  was  not  visible.  But 
his  shoulders  were  expressive  and  he  was  beginning  to  fidget 
in  his  chair;  and  when,  once  or  twice,  he  half  turned  his  head 
Eugene  could  see  the  growing  expression  of  disgust  upon  his 
face.  As  the  young  fellow  looked  more  and  more  disgusted, 
the  elderly  man  smiled  the  more  and  stroked  his  white 
mustache  and  gazed  at  him,  to  the  neglect  of  his  cards,  and 
once  in  a  while  he  glanced  at  the  other  young  fellow. 

That  other  young  fellow,  as  we  know,  was  Charlie  Ladue. 
He  sat  directly  opposite  the  dealer.  His  face  was  flushed 
with  the  excitement  of  play,  to  which  he  was  giving  all  his 
attention.  Eugene  could  not  see  his  eyes,  which  never  wan 
dered  from  the  straight  line  in  front  of  him,  from  his  cards 
to  the  dealer;  but  he  could  imagine  the  feverish  brightness 
that  shone  from  them.  He  wondered  how  the  dealer  liked 
the  constant  contemplation  of  that  sight;  how  it  pleased 
him  that  he  could  not  look  up  without  encountering  those 
eyes  of  Charlie  Ladue  fixed  upon  him. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  357 

The  dealer  seemed  to  like  it  well  enough;  he  seemed  to 
like  it  uncommonly  well.  Spencer  transferred  his  gaze  from 
Charlie  to  the  dealer.  There  was  nothing  interesting  about 
Charlie  —  to  him,  at  least ;  nothing  sad  in  his  present  situa 
tion  except  as  it  concerned  Sally.  The  dealer  was  different, 
and  Eugene  found  himself  fascinated  in  watching  him. 

It  was  impossible  to  guess  his  age.  He  might  have  been 
anywhere  from  forty  to  sixty  and  must  have  been  a  hand 
some  man  when  he  was  young  —  whenever  that  was.  He  was 
a  good-looking  man  yet,  but  there  was  something  sinister 
about  him.  His  face  was  deeply  lined,  but  not  with  the  lines 
of  age  or  pain  or  of  contentment  or  good  nature.  The  lines 
in  a  man's  face  will  tell  their  story  of  his  life  to  him  who  can 
read  them.  Insensibly,  they  tell  their  story  to  him  who  can 
not  read  them.  Eugene  could  not ;  but  he  felt  the  story  and 
was  at  once  fascinated  and  repelled.  He  could  not  take  his 
eyes  off  that  dealer's  face ;  and  the  longer  he  looked  the  more 
strongly  he  was  impressed  with  a  vague  recollection.  It 
might  be  only  of  a  dream,  or  of  a  dim  resemblance  to  some 
one  that  he  knew.  He  had  the  curious  sense,  which  comes 
to  all  of  us  on  occasion,  of  having  lived  that  very  moment 
in  some  previous  incarnation,  perhaps  of  knowing  exactly 
what  was  going  to  happen  next.  Not  that  anything  in  par 
ticular  did  happen.  I  would  not  willingly  raise  expectations 
which  must  be  disappointed. 

The  dealer  had  always  seemed  to  look  at  Charlie  Ladue 
with  interest;  with  as  much  interest  as  he  ever  showed  in 
anything  —  much  more,  indeed,  than  he  showed  in  any 
thing  or  in  anybody  else.  Charlie  himself  had  noted  that, 
and  although  he  never  spoke,  —  at  least,  Charlie  had  never 
heard  him  utter  a  word  beyond  what  were  absolutely  neces 
sary  to  his  duties,  —  there  was  something  compelling  in  his 
eye  which  always  met  Charlie's  look  as  it  was  raised  slowly 
from  his  cards,  as  if  there  were  some  mysterious  bond  of 
fellowship  between  them.  Rarely  he  had  smiled.  But  that 
was  a  mistake.  It  always  made  Charlie  wish  that  he  had  n't. 
Charlie  had  not  noticed,  perhaps,  that  it  was  always  on  the 


358  CONCERNING  SALLY 

rare  occasions  when  he  won  that  the  dealer  had  ventured 
upon  that  faint  smile  which  was  so  disagreeable.  When  he 
lost,  which  happened  more  frequently,  —  very  much  more 
frequently,  —  the  dealer  expressed  no  emotion  whatever, 
unless  a  slight  compression  of  his  thin  lips  could  be  called 
an  expression  of  emotion. 

There  was  a  stir  among  the  persons  about  the  table;  among 
those  sitting  and  among  those  standing.  The  disgusted 
young  fellow  got  up  quickly  and  one  of  the  scorers  as  quickly 
took  the  chair  he  had  left.  The  boy  breathed  a  deep  sigh  of 
relief  as  he  passed  close  to  Eugene. 

"Hell!"  he  exclaimed  under  his  breath.  It  was  more  to 
himself  than  to  anybody  else,  although,  catching  Eugene's 
eye,  he  smiled.  "They  call  that  sport!" 

The  elderly  man  with  the  white  mustache  smiled  peace 
fully  and  got  up,  too,  and  joined  the  boy. 

"Had  enough,  Harry?" 

Harry  turned  a  face  filled  with  disgust.  "Enough!" 
he  said.  "  I  should  think  I  had.  It  will  last  me  all  my  life." 
He  repressed  his  feelings  with  an  effort.  "Did  you  win, 
Uncle  Don?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  Uncle  Don  replied  quietly. 
"I  did  n't  keep  track.  Did  you?" 

"No,  thank  God!"  he  answered  fervently.  "I  lost.  And 
I  feel  as  though  I  had  nearly  lost  my  self-respect,  too.  I 
want  a  Turkish  bath." 

"All  right,"  returned  his  uncle  quickly.  "So  do  I.  And 
I've  no  doubt  that  Frank  does."  He  turned  and  beckoned 
to  the  man  who  had  been  sitting  at  the  dealer's  left.  He  had 
already  risen  and  was  standing  behind  his  chair,  idly  watch 
ing  the  readjustment,  and  he  came  at  once.  "We're  going 
to  Ben's,  Frank.  Harry  wants  a  bath." 

"Good!"  said  Frank  with  his  ready  smile.  "Something 
that  will  get  right  into  your  soul,  eh,  Harry?  Come  on, 
Don." 

Uncle  Don  had  turned  for  a  last  look  at  the  players.  "  It 
was  a  somewhat  dangerous  experiment,"  he  remarked,  "and 


CONCERNING   SALLY  359 

one  that  I  should  never  dare  to  try  with  that  other  boy 
there.  He  ought  to  be  hauled  out  of  the  game  by  the  collar 
and  spanked  and  sent  to  bed  without  his  dinner  —  to  say 
nothing  of  baths.  Well,  we  can't  meddle.  Come  on."  And 
Uncle  Don  took  one  of  Harry's  arms  and  Frank  took  the 
other  and  they  went  out. 

Eugene  was  reminded  of  his  duty.  If  he  was  to  haul  Charlie 
out  of  the  game  by  the  collar  he  must  be  quick  about  it.  He 
wormed  his  way  among  the  scorers  and  touched  Charlie  on 
the  shoulder.  Charlie  started  and  looked  up  somewhat  fear 
fully. 

Spencer  bent  over  him.    "Come,  Charlie,"  he  said. 

If  either  of  them  had  noticed,  they  would  have  seen  a  faint 
flicker  of  interest  in  the  eyes  of  the  dealer.  But  they  were 
not  looking  at  the  dealer.  Charlie  was  relieved  to  see  who  it 
was.  He  had  been  afraid  that  it  was  some  one  else  —  the 
police,  perhaps. 

"Let  me  alone,  Spencer,"  he  replied  disdainfully.  "  If  you 
think  that  I'm  coming  now,  you're  greatly  mistaken.  In 
a  couple  of  hours,  perhaps." 

Eugene  bent  farther  over.  "Sally's  waiting  for  you  out 
side."  He  spoke  very  low ;  it  was  scarcely  more  than  a  whis 
per.  But  the  dealer  must  have  heard,  for  the  interest  in  his 
eyes  was  more  than  a  flicker  now. 

In  Charlie's  eyes  there  was  a  momentary  fear.  It  was  but 
momentary. 

He  laughed  nervously.  "I  hope  she  won't  get  tired  of 
waiting."  He  shook  his  head.  "I  won't  come  now.  " 

Eugene  bent  lower  yet.  "She  told  me  to  tell  you  that 
she  should  wait  until  you  did." 

The  dealer  was  waiting  for  them.  There  was  a  flash  of 
irritation  in  Charlie's  eyes  and  he  turned  to  the  table.  "Go 
to  the  devil!"  he  said. 

There  was  a  snicker  from  some  of  those  seated  about  the 
table.  Eugene  reddened  and  drew  back  and  the  game  went 
on. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IT  was  a  very  lonely  time  that  Sally  had,  standing  there, 
leaning  against  the  tree-guard  and  looking  up  and  down 
the  deserted  street.  The  houses  seemed  to  be  all  asleep 
or  deserted  as  well  as  the  street.  She  wondered  idly  what 
they  were  used  for ;  then  she  thought  that  it  was  as  well  that 
she  did  not  know,  judging  from  the  one  of  them  that  she  did 
know  about.  What  would  the  builders  of  those  houses  think 
if  they  could  come  back  and  see  the  uses  to  which  their  dig 
nified  old  homes  had  been  put? 

She  glanced  up  and  down  the  street  again.  Yes,  it  seemed 
to  be  entirely  deserted.  She  did  not  see  the  figure  which 
lurked  in  the  shadows  on  the  other  side.  She  had  said  that 
she  would  be  all  right;  that  she  was  not  afraid.  Well,  she 
was  not  afraid,  but  she  was  getting  just  a  bit  nervous. 
She  wished  that  Eugene  would  hurry  with  Charlie.  She 
could  not  stand  by  that  tree  any  longer  anyway.  She  be 
gan  to  walk  slowly  up  and  down,  watching  the  door  out  of 
which  she  expected  Jane  and  Charlie  to  appear  at  any  mo 
ment,  and  she  wondered  what  she  should  say  to  Charlie. 
She  had  no  set  speech  prepared.  What  was  there  to  say  that 
could  possibly  do  any  good?  Probably  she  would  say  nothing 
at  all  and  they  would  set  off  in  silence,  all  three,  to  their 
hotel.  She  had  other  thoughts,  too,  but  they  need  not  con 
cern  us  now.  We  are  not  thinking  of  Fox  Sanderson  and  his 
silly  speeches  nor  of  Henrietta  and  her  contentment ;  for  she 
ought  to  be  contented  if  ever  a  girl  was.  Sally's  eyes  filled 
with  tears  and  her  thoughts  insensibly  drifted  away  from 
Charlie  and  Jane  as  she  paced  slowly  to  and  fro.  And  that 
lurking  figure  across  the  street  was  never  very  far  away. 

The  sound  of  a  door  shutting  reverberated  after  the  man 
ner  of  all  sounds  in  that  street  and  there  were  voices.  Sally 


CONCERNING  SALLY  361 

had  turned  at  the  sound  of  the  door.  Somebody  was  coming 
out  of  the  house  and  she  hurried  forward  and  stopped  short. 
The  figure  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  started  forward  and 
stopped  short  also.  There  were  three  men  coming  out,  and 
the  joyous  voices  were  not  Jane's  and  Charlie's.  Their 
voices  would  not  be  joyous  —  if  they  spoke  at  all.  The  three 
men  passed  her,  arm  in  arm,  and  they  looked  at  her  curi 
ously  as  they  passed  and  the  hand  of  the  oldest  instinctively 
went  to  his  hat.  Sally  saw  that  he  was  an  elderly  man  with 
a  pleasant  face  and  that  his  mustache  was  snow-white. 
They  had  got  but  a  few  steps  beyond  when  their  pace 
slackened  and  this  man  seemed  to  hesitate.  He  looked  back 
at  her  doubtfully.  Then  he  sighed  and  and  the  three  re 
sumed  their  brisk  walk. 

"No  use,"  he  said.  "Can't  meddle.  I  wish  I  could.  No 
good  comes  of  it." 

Once  more  Sally  took  up  her  slow  walk  to  and  fro.  She 
was  glad  that  the  three  men  had  gone,  but  she  was  sorry, 
too.  That  elderly  man  had  seemed  kind  and  sympathetic 
and  a  gentleman;  and  he  had  come  from  that  house.  But 
that,  Sally,  was  no  recommendation.  She  knew  that  he  had 
done  the  wise  thing;  or  that  he  had  not  done  the  unwise 
thing,  and  probably  he  was  right  and  no  good  came  of  med 
dling.  And  the  sound  of  their  steps  died  away  as  they  turned 
a  corner.  Again  Sally  had  the  street  to  herself ;  Sally  and  the 
man  lurking  in  the  shadows.  She  found  herself  growing 
more  and  more  oppressed  with  the  sense  of  loneliness.  If 
only  somebody  were  there  to  wait  with  her!  A  quiet,  out-of- 
the-way  street,  poorly  lighted,  is  not  the  most  exhilarating 
place  for  a  girl  at  half-past  eleven  at  night.  If  only  Fox  — 

Somebody  else  had  turned  the  corner  and  was  coming 
toward  her  with  a  step  that  was  neither  brisk  nor  loitering; 
that  seemed  as  if  it  knew  just  where  it  was  going,  but  was 
in  no  unseemly  haste  to  get  there.  Sally  stopped  and  looked 
about  for  some  place  in  which  the  might  conceal  herself. 
None  offered  better  than  her  tree.  As  the  step  drew  near 
she  seemed  to  know  it,  and  she  shrank  as  nearly  out  of  sight 


362  CONCERNING   SALLY 

as  she  could.  She  had  no  invisible  cap;  she  wished  she 
had. 

The  step  which  she  knew  stopped  beside  her.  "Sally!" 
said  a  voice  in  unmistakable  surprise.  "Sally!  What  in 
the  world  are  you  doing  here?" 

Sally  smiled  as  bravely  as  she  could.  "  Nothing,  Everett," 
she  replied  quietly.  "Just  waiting." 

"Waiting?"  he  exclaimed.    "For  whom,  may  I  ask?" 

"For  Charlie,"  she  answered  as  quietly  as  before.  "Jane 
has  gone  in  to  get  him." 

"Oh,"  said  Everett  coldly,  "so  Spencer  has  gone  in  to 
get  him.  To  judge  by  appearances,  he  does  n't  seem  to 
make  a  success  of  it." 

Sally  shook  her  head.  There  did  not  seem  to  be  anything 
else  to  say.  Spencer  did  n't  seem  to  be  making  much  of  a 
success  of  it. 

"How  long  have  you  been  waiting?" 

"Two  or  three  years,"  answered  Sally,  with  a  nervous 
laugh. 

"You  poor  girl!"  Everett  exclaimed.  "I  was  just  going 
in  to  see  if  I  could  n't  get  Charlie.  It  is  curious  how  things 
happen."  Sally  smiled  a  little  smile  of  amusement  in  spite 
of  her  nervousness.  It  was  curious  how  things  happened, 
when  you  came  to  think  of  it.  "There  isn't  any  use  in 
your  waiting  any  longer.  It  can't  do  any  good,  and  it  may 
be  very  unpleasant  for  you.  Better  let  me  take  you  to  your 
hotel.  Then  I  will  come  back.  I  may  have  as  much  success 
as  Spencer,  perhaps."  And  Everett  began  a  little  smile  of 
his  own;  but,  thinking  that  Sally  might  see  it,  he  stopped 
before  the  smile  was  well  born. 

Sally  shook  her  head  again.  "  I  told  Eugene  to  tell  Char 
lie  that  I  should  wait  here  until  he  came  out.  It  is  n't  plea 
sant,  but  I  shall  wait." 

"But,  Sally,"  Everett  remonstrated,  "you  don't  under 
stand.  You—" 

"I  do  understand,"  Sally  interrupted.  "I  will  take  care 
of  myself."  She  may  not  have  realized  how  this  would  sound 


CONCERNING  SALLY  363 

and  how  it  would  exasperate  Everett.  But  perhaps  she  did 
realize. 

Everett  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  away. 
Sally  was  an  obstinate  piece. 

"If  you  want  to  do  me  a  kindness,"  she  continued,  "you 
will  help  to  get  Charlie  out  as  soon  as  you  can." 

"As  you  like,"  he  returned.  "I  will  certainly  do  what  I 
can  to  get  Charlie  out.  That's  what  I  am  here  for."  Again 
Sally  smiled  her  peculiar  little  smile.  She  could  n't  help  it. 
That  Everett  should  think  she  would  believe  that!  "  But  you 
had  much  better  let  me  take  you  to  your  hotel  first."  he 
added,  persusasively.  "I  will  explain  to  Spencer." 

"I  will  wait." 

Everett  was  irritated  and  quite  out  of  patience  with  her. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders  again  and  started  on. 

1 '  You  are  very  good ,  Everett, ' '  Sally  called  softly.  ' '  Thank 
you,  and  good  night." 

He  made  no  reply  unless  a  perfunctory  touch  of  his  hat 
and  an  impatient  mutter  could  be  called  a  reply ;  and  he  was 
swallowed  up  by  the  doorway  and  admitted  by  the  door 
man  with  a  familiar  nod  and  a  grin  which  it  was  as  well,  he 
thought,  that  Sally  did  not  see.  She  would  not  have  been 
surprised  if  she  had  seen. 

Everett  had  hardly  disappeared  when  the  lurking  figure 
left  its  post  in  the  shadows  and  advanced  toward  Sally.  She 
saw  it  and  braced  herself  for  the  encounter.  In  the  matter  of 
encounters  that  lonely  street  was  doing  pretty  well.  For  an 
instant  she  meditated  flight,  but  instantly  decided  against 
it.  The  man  must  have  known,  from  her  attitude,  what  was 
passing  in  her  mind,  for  he  spoke  when  he  was  but  halfway 
across. 

"Sally,"  he  said  gently,  "you  needn't  be  frightened. 
It—" 

Whereupon  Sally  behaved  in  a  most  peculiar  and  repre 
hensible  manner.  At  the  sound  of  the  voice  she  had  stiffened ; 
but  now  she  cast  herself  at  the  man  and  seized  his  arm  with 
both  her  hands. 


364  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Fox,  Fox,"  she  said,  with  a  quiver  in  her  voice,  for  she 
was  very  near  to  crying.  "  I  'm  glad.  You  are  an  old  com 
fort.  You  don't  know  how  lonely  it  was,  waiting  by  myself. 
I  thought  I  could  stand  it,  but  I  don't  know  whether  I  could 
have  held  out  much  longer.  The  street  was  getting  on  my 
nerves." 

"  I  know,  Sally,"  he  replied.  "  I  was  afraid  it  would.  And 
now  what  is  the  prospect?  Is  Charlie  likely  to  come  soon? 
And  shall  we  go  to  your  hotel  or  wait?" 

"  I  must  wait.  But  —  but,  Fox,  it  would  provoke  Jane  and 
Charlie,  too,  to  find  you  here." 

Fox  laughed.  "Then  I  will  vanish  at  the  first  sign  of 
them.  But  I  should  really  like  to  know  how  your  enterprise 
comes  out.  Do  you  mind  telling  me,  Sally?  And  how  shall 
we  manage  it  without  telling  your  mother?  I  suppose  she 
does  n't  know  the  purpose  of  your  coming." 

"  Not  from  me,  although  she  may  guess.  I  '11  come  out,  in 
a  day  or  two,  to  call  on  you,  sir.  Shall  you  feel  honored?" 

"You  know  I  shall,  Sally.  But  how  will  you  account  for 
your  call?" 

"  I  shall  come  to  collect  the  rent,"  returned  Sally  promptly, 
"if  any  excuse  is  necessary.  Be  sure  that  you  have  it  ready. 
And  I  shall  give  you  a  faithful  account  of  all  that  has  trans 
pired."  She  had  Fox's  arm  and  she  gave  it  a  little  squeeze. 
It  was  a  very  little  squeeze  and  very  brief,  but  it  made  his 
heart  jump.  "  It  was  lucky  for  me  that  you  — "  And  then 
she  stopped  short,  realizing  that  Fox  would  not  have  hap 
pened  to  be  in  that  street,  leading  to  nowhere,  at  that  time. 

"Don't  you  know,"  he  asked  simply,  with  a  laugh  of  con 
tent,  "that  I  always  keep  track  of  you?  Did  you  think  that 
you  could  come  to  such  a  place  as  this  without  my  being 
somewhere  about?" 

Sally  changed  the  subject  quickly.  It  was  an  unspeakable 
comfort  to  her  to  know  —  but  Fox  must  not  pursue  that 
subject  now.  Fox  had  no  intention  of  pursuing  that  subject ; 
and  they  walked  slowly  to  and  fro  over  what  had  been  Sally's 
beat,  talking  of  anything  or  of  nothing.  Sally  was  content; 


CONCERNING  SALLY  365 

and  again  she  forgot  Charlie  and  Jane  and  her  errand,  and 
she  became  almost  gay.  Those  sombre  old  houses  echoed 
quiet  laughter,  of  a  kind  that  they  had  not  heard  for  good 
ness  knows  how  many  years,  and  low  voices.  Some  more  men 
came,  singly,  or  in  groups  of  two  or  three,  and  looked  at 
them  with  curiosity.  Sally  hardly  saw  them.  And  the  last 
group  passed  into  the  house  and  up  the  stairs  and  into  the 
room  where  the  table  stood  before  the  front  windows  and 
they  stopped  short  at  the  sound  of  angry  voices. 

The  game  had  stopped,  for  the  moment,  and  the  dealer 
was  leaning  back  with  his  hand  upon  the  pack,  waiting. 
There  was  a  look  upon  his  face  of  languid  interest  under  the 
mask  of  indifference,  as  he  gazed  at  the  young  fellow  oppo 
site,  his  face  flushed  now  with  impotent  rage,  and  at  the  man 
leaning  over  him.  The  face  above  was  flushed  with  anger, 
too,  but  it  was  not  impotent.  If  Sally  had  seen  it  she  would 
have  been  reminded  of  her  father.  The  sight  seemed  to  re 
mind  the  dealer  of  something,  but  it  was  impossible  to  guess 
whether  that  something  was  pleasant  or  otherwise.  Many 
things  had  happened  to  him  which  were  not  pleasant  to 
think  of.  Indeed,  the  pleasant  things  were  very  few.  He  did 
not  think  of  his  past  when  he  could  help  it.  It  was  a  thing 
to  be  avoided. 

"Come,  Charlie,"  said  Everett  again,  sharply.  "You're 
to  get  up  and  go.  We're  all  waiting." 

Charlie  seemed  to  be  divided  between  his  long  admiration 
of  Everett  —  of  what  he  said  and  did  and  was  —  and  his 
helpless  anger.  He  wavered. 

"You  mean  that  I  have  got  to  leave  the  game?"  he  sput 
tered  at  last.  ' '  Why  have  I  ?  "  He  hesitated  a  moment,  look 
ing  from  the  cards  to  the  dealer  who  still  had  that  little  look 
of  languid  interest  upon  his  face.  In  fact,  it  was  almost  com 
pelling  a  smile  on  the  thin  lips.  Charlie  could  not  have  stood 
that.  He  looked  away  again  quickly,  but  he  did  not  look  at 
Everett.  He  could  not  have  stood  that,  either.  "No,"  he 
said,  with  a  sudden  accession  of  courage,  "I  won't  do  it. 
The  game  can  go  on." 


366  CONCERNING  SALLY 

The  dealer  did  not  move  a  muscle.  Everett  smiled.  "  You 
see,"  he  answered,  "that  it  will  not  go  on  with  you  in  it. 
I'm  right,  Charlie?"  he  added,  glancing  up  at  the  dealer; 
but  it  was  less  a  question  than  a  command. 

The  dealer  nodded.   Still  Charlie  Ladue  did  not  move. 

"Come,  Ladue,"  Everett  ordered  impatiently.  "Don't 
make  them  put  you  out.  Cash  in  and  go  along.  You  know 
very  well  why.  I  promised  to  start  you  and  I  'm  going  to. 
And,  let  me  tell  you,  I  can  do  it." 

There  was  nothing  else  to  do.  Charlie  muttered  something 
and  rose  slowly  and  pushed  his  chair  back  violently  in  a  fit 
of  childish  anger.  Instantly  the  chair  was  taken  and  the 
game  was  going  on  almost  before  he  had  his  back  turned. 
Everett  kept  close  beside  him  until  he  had  his  coat  and 
hat,  and  he  even  went  down  to  the  door  with  him.  Eugene 
was  waiting  there,  but  he  said  nothing.  He  was  much  morti 
fied  at  his  complete  failure  and  at  Everett's  complete  suc 
cess.  The  grinning  black  opened  the  door. 

"Good  night,  Spencer,"  said  Everett.  "And  good  night, 
Charlie.  If  you  take  my  advice,  you'll  give  it  up." 

The  door  shut  behind  the  two  and  Everett  went  upstairs 
again.  He  paid  no  attention  to  the  game,  but  walked  into 
the  dimly  lighted  back  room  and  to  the  sideboard.  He  felt 
out  of  sorts  with  himself  and  with  everybody  and  everything 
else.  He  must  be  thirsty ;  and  he  poured  himself  out  a  glass 
and  stood  sipping  it  and  looking  absently  at  the  heavily 
curtained  windows  at  the  rear.  There  did  not  happen  to  be 
anybody  else  at  the  sideboard. 

He  was  still  sipping  with  his  back  toward  the  front  room 
and  the  game  when  he  felt  a  touch  upon  his  arm.  He  turned 
quickly.  There  stood  the  dealer. 

"Hello,  Charlie!"  he  said  in  some  surprise.  "Your  re 
cess?  Do  you  want  me  to  apologize  for  taking  that  young 
cub  out  and  making  all  that  row?" 

The  dealer  shook  his  head.  "That  was  right  enough.  I  've 
been  thinking  about  him  for  some — "  He  stopped  short 
and  swallowed  —  something ;  possibly  a  lump  or  something 


CONCERNING  SALLY  367 

of  the  kind.  But  it  is  not  conceivable  that  such  a  man  can 
have  the  more  usual  emotions  of  pity  and  charity.  For  they 
are  the  usual  emotions,  whatever  you  may  say  against  it. 
If  Everett  had  only  known  it,  that  was  the  very  trouble  with 
him.  He  had  not  been  thirsty,  primarily.  His  thirst  was 
but  a  physical  symptom  of  his  mental  state. 

But  I  interrupted  the  dealer.  He  was  speaking  again. 
"  I  should  like  to  ask  you  a  question,  Mr.  Morton,"  he  said. 

"What  is  it,  Charlie?"  Everett  felt  but  a  passing  interest 
in  his  question. 

"I  noticed  that  you  called  the  young  man  Ladue." 

"Did  I?  That  was  very  thoughtless  of  me.  I  apologize." 

The  dealer  did  not  smile,  but  went  on,  apparently  pur 
suing  his  object,  whatever  that  was.  "And  the  other  man 
spoke  of  Sally." 

"Indeed!  That  was  even  more  thoughtless." 

"Charlie  Ladue,"  the  dealer  continued  in  an  even  voice, 
"and  Sally.  It  sounds  as  if  Sally  should  be  his  sister.  Is 
she?," 

Everett  hesitated  for  a  moment.  After  all,  what  harm? 
"Well,  yes,  she  is  his  sister.  Much  disturbed  at  hearing  of 
his  doings.  You  and  I,  Charlie,"  he  said  lightly,  "know 
better." 

The  dealer  smiled  faintly.  For  a  wonder  his  faint  smile 
was  not  unpleasant. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  he  pursued,  "where  Miss  Sally  Ladue 
is  to  be  found  —  say,  in  the  morning?  " 

Everett  hesitated  again  and  glanced  at  the  man  suspici 
ously.  This  was  a  more  serious  matter. 

"Why  do  you  ask?  And,  assuming  that  I  know,  why 
should  I  tell  you,  Charlie?"  If  it  had  not  been  that  he  still 
smarted  under  Sally's  treatment  of  him,  he  would  not  have 
gone  as  far  as  that. 

The  old  dealer  with  the  lined  face  smiled  slowly  and 
with  a  certain  cunning. 

"Possibly  I  can  answer  both  questions  at  once.  Conceiv 
ably,  I  can  satisfy  you.  I  am  her  father." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

SALLY  and  Eugene  and  Charlie  had  almost  finished 
breakfast.  It  was  a  silent  group;  Eugene  was  quiet, 
for  he  had  not  got  over  the  mortification  at  his  miser 
able  failure  of  the  night  before,  and,  besides,  the  very  fact 
that  he  was  eating  breakfast  with  Sally  was  enough  to  make 
him  quiet.  Charlie  was  sulky  and  morose  and  penitent. 
There  had  been  very  little  said,  but  that  little  had  been  to 
the  point,  and  Charlie  had  pleaded  nolo  contendere,  which, 
in  this  case,  was  equivalent  to  a  plea  of  guilty;  guilty  of  the 
offense  as  charged  and  guilty  of  obtaining  money  from  Patty 
under  false  pretenses,  although  Sally  could  not  find  out 
how  much.  He  would  only  say  that  it  was  not  so  very 
much;  he  could  not  remember  exactly  how  much.  And 
Sally  had  promised  to  give  him  a  reasonable  allowance  if 
he  would  honestly  try  to  keep  within  it  and  would  give  up 
his  bad  habits,  which  would  be  his  unfailing  ruin  if  he  kept 
on.  It  might  be  necessary  to  take  him  out  of  college.  He 
was  to  go  home  with  them  and  the  council  of  war  would 
decide  about  that.  Charlie  seemed  somewhat  anxious  about 
the  composition  of  that  council,  although  he  did  not  seem 
to  care  very  much  whether  he  left  college  or  not.  As  Sally 
had  not  decided  upon  that  point,  she  did  not  gratify  his 
curiosity.  And  Charlie  had  given  the  required  promises. 
He  had  even  promised  more  than  was  required  of  him,  for 
he  agreed  to  reform  permanently.  Sally  had  her  doubts 
about  its  being  permanent.  She  had  seen  too  much  of  the 
effects  of  the  "bug,"  as  Horry  Carling  had  called  it.  But 
she  could  not  ask  more,  and  she  sighed  and  expressed  her 
self  as  satisfied  and  they  went  in  to  breakfast.  That  inci 
dent  was  closed. 

Now  she  was  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  watching  the 


CONCERNING  SALLY  369 

others  putting  the  finishing  touches  on  a  rather  substantial 
breakfast.  A  call-boy  was  speaking  to  the  head  waiter;  and 
that  august  official  came  with  stately  step  to  Sally's  table. 

"A  gen'leman  to  see  Miss  Ladue,"  he  announced  pri 
vately  in  Sally's  ear. 

Sally  looked  up  in  surprise.  ''To  see  me?"  she  asked. 
"Are  you  sure?  Who  is  it?  Do  you  know?" 

"He  asked  was  Miss  Ladue  staying  here,  but  he  did  n't 
give  no  card  and  he  would  n't  give  no  name.  I  could  say 
that  you've  gone  or  that  we  can't  find  you,"  the  man  sug 
gested,  "if  you  don't  care  to  see  him." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Sally,  with  a  quick  smile.  "I'll  see  him. 
He  may  have  come  to  tell  me  of  a  long-lost  fortune.  But," 
she  added  with  a  puzzled  wonder,  "I  can't  imagine  who  it 
can  be." 

Eugene  got  up,  pushing  aside  his  coffee.  "Let  me  go, 
Sally." 

Sally  was  already  up.  "Oh,  no,"  she  said  again.  "Thank 
you,  Eugene,  but  you  and  Charlie  may  as  well  finish  your 
breakfast  in  comfort.  There's  plenty  of  time  before  our 
train  goes  and  I  will  join  you  in  a  few  minutes.  I'm  only 
wondering  who  in  the  world  it  is  and  what  he  wants.  Per 
haps  it's  Everett." 

A  look  of  annoyance  came  into  Spencer's  eyes  at  the  men 
tion  of  Everett.  Why  could  n't  he  let  them  alone?  But 
Sally  was  rapidly  vanishing  in  the  wake  of  the  head  waiter, 
who  delivered  her  safely  to  the  call-boy.  At  the  door  of  a 
small  reception  room  the  boy  paused,  parted  the  hangings, 
and  bowed  Sally  in. 

As  she  entered,  a  man  rose  from  a  chair  near  the  window 
and  stood  waiting.  Although  Sally  could  not  see  his  face 
because  of  the  light  behind  him,  there  was  something 
vaguely  familiar  in  his  manner  of  rising  from  the  chair  and 
in  his  attitude.  It  troubled  her. 

"You  wished  to  see  me?"  she  asked,  wondering  why  he 
did  not  come  forward  to  meet  her. 

"Miss  Sallie  Ladue  ?  "  he  asked  in  return.  Sally's  hand  went 


370  CONCERNING  SALLY 

to  her  heart  involuntarily;  her  mother's  trick,  exactly.  The 
man  seemed  to  be  smiling,  although  Sally  could  not  see  that, 
either.  "I  want  to  make  sure.  It  is  sometime  since — " 

"Turn  around  to  the  light,  so  that  I  can  see  your  face," 
Sally  commanded.  Her  voice  was  hard  and  cold.  It  may  have 
penetrated  his  armor.  He  turned  obediently,  giving  a  short 
laugh  as  he  did  so. 

"My  face  may  be  a  trifle  the  worse  for  wear  since  you 
have  seen  me,"  he  remarked  airily.  "A  trifle  the  worse  for 
wear;  which  yours  is  not.  Has  anybody  ever  told  you, 
Sally,  that  you  have  become  a  lovely  woman?  Or  would  n't 
you  care  for  that  tribute?" 

"We  will  not  discuss  my  appearance,  if  you  please."  Sally's 
voice  was  still  hard  and  cold ;  like  steel.  She  came  around  in 
front  of  him  and  scrutinized  his  face  closely.  There  could 
be  no  possible  doubt.  "Well,  father?" 

"You  don't  seem  glad  to  see  me,  Sally.  After  an  absence 
of  —  er  —  a  hundred  years  or  so,  one  would  think  that  you 
might  be.  But,  I  repeat,  you  don't  seem  glad  to  see  me." 

"  No,"  said  Sally  quietly.    "  I  'm  not." 

He  laughed.  His  laugh  was  unpleasant.  "Truthful  as 
ever,  I  see.  Would  n't  it  be  better  to  mask  the  truth  a  little, 
when  it  must  be  as  disagreeable  as  it  is  now?  To  draw  even 
a  thin  veil  over  it,  so  that  it  can  be  perceived  dimly  — 
dimly  if  unmistakably?" 

Sally  shook  her  head  and  she  did  not  smile.  "  I  see  no  ob 
ject  in  it.  What  is  your  purpose  in  seeing  me  now?  I  do  not 
doubt  that  you  have  a  purpose.  What  is  it?" 

He  seemed  to  find  a  certain  pleasure  in  tantalizing  her. 
"Are  n't  you  curious  to  know  how  I  found  out  your  where 
abouts?" 

"I  am  not  interested  in  that.   Tell  me  your  purpose." 

"What  other  purpose  could  I  have  than  to  see  my  daugh 
ter  after  so  many  years?  Is  it  permitted,  my  dear  Sally,  to 
ask  after  the  health  of  your  mother?" 

"She  is  well;  as  well  as  can  be  expected.  It  is  not  your 
fault  that  she  did  not  die  years  ago.  She  was.  four  years 


CONCERNING  SALLY  371 

getting  over  that  trouble  of  hers.  You  laughed  at  her  head 
aches,  you  remember.  She  was  four  years  in  Doctor  Galen's 
sanitarium." 

He  waved  his  hand  lightly,  as  of  old.  "A  little  misunder 
standing,  Sally,  which  I  greatly  regret.  But  four  years  of 
Doctor  Galen!  How  did  you  manage  to  pay  him?" 

"That,"  replied  Sally,  "cannot  possibly  be  any  concern 
of  yours." 

"Ah,  true.  It  is  not  any  concern  of  mine.  But  is  it  not 
possible  to  see  your  mother?  She  is  still  my  wife,  I  presume, 
and  you  are  still  my  daughter." 

"She  is  still  your  wife  and  I  am  your  daughter.  But  you 
shall  not  see  her  if  I  can  prevent  it." 

"And  —  I  gather  from  the  tenor  of  your  remarks  that 
you  would  resist  any  attempt  at  —  er  —  reuniting  a  family 
long  separated  by  circumstances." 

Sally  smiled  disdainfully.  "  I  am  of  age.  As  to  my  mother, 
I  should  resist.  No  court  would  compel  it." 

"Ah,"  he  said,  smiling,  "how  well  you  meet  my  points! 
You  are  of  age,  and  no  doubt  you  are  right  about  the  courts. 
There  is  no  law  that  will  prohibit  my  trying,  I  think.  And 
Charlie  is  not  of  age,  if  my  recollection  serves  me." 

Before  Sally  could  frame  an  answer,  there  was  a  slight 
noise  in  the  hall  and  Charlie  burst  in.  "  I  beg  your  pardon," 
he  said  hastily.  The  two  were  standing,  and  he  had  not 
recognized  Sally.  But  an  instant's  gaze  was  enough.  "Sally ! 
he  exclaimed.  He  looked  at  the  man.  A  wave  of  red  rushed 
into  his  face.  "Charlie!"  he  cried  involuntarily.  Then  he 
recovered.  "What  are  you  doing  here?  What  do  you  mean 
by  coming  to  see  my  sister?  " 

Sally  was  inexpressibly  distressed.  She  started  to  speak. 
She  would  have  said  something  —  told  him  the  truth,  of 
course  —  to  save  them  both ;  but  a  quiet  movement  of  her 
father's  hand  stopped  her.  He  seemed  to  be  waiting  pa 
tiently  for  the  next  stone. 

"Do  you  know,  Sally,"  Charlie  continued,  "who  this 
man  is?  He  is  the  dealer  in  number  seven.  He  has  no  right 


372  CONCERNING  SALLY 

—  no  business  to  try  to  see  you.  I  insist  on  his  leaving  at 
once." 

Sally  spoke  with  surprising  gentleness,  considering  her 
mode  of  speech  to  her  father  only  a  few  minutes  before. 
"We  have  some  business,  Charlie,"  she  said.  "He  will  go 
as  soon  as  that  is  done.  Now,  leave  us,  please,  to  finish  it,  for 
we  have  not  a  great  deal  of  time.  It  is  all  right." 

And  Charlie  withdrew  slowly,  with  many  a  glance  from 
one  to  the  other  and  many  a  misgiving  as  to  the  business 
which  seemed  to  be  of  so  private  a  nature.  They  heard  his 
steps  retreating  down  the  hall. 

Sally  turned  her  shocked  face  to  her  father,  "Won't  you 
sit  down?"  she  asked  gently.  "I  am  very  sorry;  sorrier 
than  I  can  tell  you  —  for  —  everything,  but  especially  for 
that  speech  of  Charlie's.  But  Charlie  did  not  know." 

"And  I  prefer  that  he  should  n't,"  her  father  replied.  He 
had  seated  himself  with  his  face  half  turned  away  from  the 
light.  "  I  have  many  hard  things  to  bear,  Sally,  and,  strange 
as  it  may  seem  to  you,  I  try  to  bear  them  with  patience.  I 
have  to,  so  why  make  a  virtue  of  necessity?  That  speech 
of  Charlie's  —  made  in  ignorance  —  was  less  hard  for  me 
than  your  own." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  Sally  said  again,  "but  I  meant  what  I  said, 
most  emphatically.  You  are  not  to  suppose  that  I  did  n't. 
But  I  am  sorry  for  my  manner  —  if  it  hurt  you." 

He  smiled  faintly.  "It  was  not  intended  to  soothe  or  to 
amuse,  I  take  it,"  he  remarked.  And  he  lapsed  into  silence, 
fingering  his  hat  nervously  and  turning  it  around  in  his 
hands. 

Sally  sat  gazing  at  the  lined  old  face  before  her  a  long  time 
without  speaking.  As  she  looked,  her  eyes  softened  even 
more  and  grew  tender  —  and  those  eyes  could  be  wonder 
fully  tender.  He  bore  her  gaze  as  well  as  he  could,  but  he 
was  ill  at  ease.  If  the  truth  must  be  told,  his  mood  had  soft 
ened,  too,  and  the  very  fact  embarassed  him.  Perhaps  he 
remembered  the  days  of  the  little  lizard  and  the  coal-trees 
and  the  occasions  when  the  gynesaurus  had  climbed  to  the 


CONCERNING  SALLY  373 

topmost  branch  and  gazed  forth  upon  a  wide  prospect  of 
tree-tops  and  swamps.  It  could  not  have  been  pleasant  to 
recollect  those  days.  For  him,  they  were  no  more  and 
could  be  never  again.  He  was  roused  by  Sally's  low  voice. 

"Oh,  father,"  she  said  impulsively,  "why  do  you  do  it? 
Why  can't  you  give  it  up?  I  could  get  your  lizard  for  you. 
Why  not  return  to  your  old  life?  You  might  do  something 
yet.  At  least,  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  be  respectable. 

He  laughed  at  that.  "No  doubt  it  would,"  he  observed, 
"  be  a  great  comfort  to  be  respectable.  And  no  doubt  it  would 
be  a  great  comfort  to  you  to  have  a  respectable  father ;  re 
formed;  dragged  from  the  depths."  The  tears  came  to 
Sally's  eyes.  "Does  your  programme,"  he  asked  then, 
nonchalantly,  "include  —  er  —  reuniting  a  family  long 
separated  by  circumstances?  You  may  remember  that  I 
mentioned  the  matter  once  before." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly  and  regretfully.  "  I  'm  afraid 
not.  I  could  n't  consent  to  exposing  mother  to  the  — "  She 
hesitated  and  stopped. 

"The  dangers  incident  to  such  an  arrangement?"  he  sug 
gested.  "Pardon  me  for  supplying  what  you  were  consid 
erate  enough  to  omit.  Perhaps  you  are  wise.  And  Charlie?  " 

"And  Charlie."  She  nodded.  "You  see,  yourself,  that 
such  a  thing  could  not  be  —  at  any  rate,  until  you  have 
proved  that  you  could  do  it." 

"  I  could  n't,"  he  answered  promptly.  "  Don't  think  that 
I  have  n't  tried.  I  have  tried,  repeatedly.  I  hate  the  life, 
but  I  can't  give  it  up.  But,"  he  added,  "you  need  not  have 
been  afraid  for  Charlie." 

"I  am  very  much  afraid  for  Charlie,"  said  Sally  simply, 
"in  any  case.  He  is  sick  of  it  now.  How  long  the  present 
mood  will  last,  I  do  not  know.  Could  you  manage  that  he 
is  not  allowed  to  play  at  —  at  your  — " 

He  bowed  gravely.   "That  can  be  arranged,  I  think." 

"Thank  you,  father." 

Once  more  there  was  silence  between  them.  Finally  he 
made  a  movement  as  if  to  go.  "  I  was  —  I  wanted  —  was 


374  CONCERNING  SALLY 

curious  to  see  how  you  had  come  out,  Sally.  That  was  the 
main  reason  for  my  troubling  you.  If  there  were  other 
reasons,  they  no  longer  exist.  I  — "  : 

"Don't  go  yet,  father,"  Sally  interrupted.  "I  have  more 
to  say." 

He  sat  down  again  and  waited.  She  was  considering 
—  trying  to  consider  the  problem  before  her  in  every  as 
pect.  But  she  could  not  get  the  point  of  view  of  her  father 
and  Charlie,  and  she  wanted  to. 

"Father,"  she  resumed,  "what  is  the  attraction?  I  have 
been  trying  hard  to  get  a  sympathetic  view  of  it  and  I  can't. 
I  can't  see  anything  except  what  is  sordid  and  repulsive. 
The  life  is  —  is  not  desirable  — " 

"Not  very  desirable,"  he  broke  in,  with  a  horrible,  dry 
laugh. 

"  And  it  can  hardly  be  simply  covetousness.  If  it  is, 
you  miss  your  mark.  What  I  — " 

"It  is  not  covetousness.  I  may  as  well  say  that  it  is  not 
a  sin  of  covetousness,"  he  corrected,  "in  deference  to  the 
generally  received  opinion.  I  have  no  desire  to  gloss  over 
and  to  try  to  excuse  by  a  form  of  words,  although  I,  per 
sonally,  am  not  convinced  that  it  is  a  sin  according  to  natu 
ral  law.  However,  we  need  not  discuss  that  aspect  of  it." 

He  waved  that  view  aside  with  a  familiar  motion  of  his 
hand.  How  familiar  they  were  —  those  little  tricks  of  the 
hand  and  of  the  voice!  They  made  Sally's  eyes  fill  and  a 
lump  come  in  her  throat.  She  raised  her  hand  to  her  fore 
head  and  leaned  upon  it.  It  half  concealed  her  eyes.  She 
said  nothing.  The  professor  went  on  in  his  old  lecture- 
room  manner;  a  judicial  manner. 

"  No,  it  is  not  a  sin  of  covetousness,  but  simply  a  passion 
to  which  any  man  who  is  subject  to  it  can't  help  giving  way. 
It  is  a  passion  as  old  as  humanity  —  perhaps  older.  There 
are  no  more  inveterate  gamblers  than  the  savages.  Pos 
sibly,"  he  added,  smiling,  "my  little  lizard  had  it;  possibly 
it  goes  back  to  those  ancient  days  that  you  know  about, 
Sally.  It  may  be  that  the  saurians  had  their  own  games  of 


CONCERNING  SALLY  375 

chance  and  their  own  stakes  —  and,  I  may  add,  their  own 
methods  of  enforcing  payment.  Indeed,  their  life  was  one 
great  gamble.  For  that  matter,  life  is  no  more  than  that 
now." 

Sally  made  an  inarticulate  protest. 

"As  for  getting  the  other  man's  money,"  the  professor 
continued,  unheeding,  "that  is  merely  incidental.  We  feel 
better,  it's  true,  when  we  win,  but  that  is  for  another  rea 
son.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  game  —  keeping  his 
money.  The  other  man  can  keep  his  money  —  or,  as  far  as 
the  game  is  concerned,  I  would  give  it  back  to  him  —  for  all 
the  happiness  it  brings  him  or  would  bring  me.  The  distinc 
tion  which  I  mean  to  draw  is  a  little  subtle,  but  I  flatter 
myself  that  you  can  appreciate  it." 

He  looked  at  her  and  she  nodded.  The  tears  still  stood  in 
her  eyes. 

"Happiness,  Sally,"  he  resumed,  absently  gazing  at  the 
wall,  "is  —  but  you  probably  do  not  care  for  my  views  on  the 
subject  of  happiness,"  he  said,  interrupting  himself  and 
glancing  at  her  with  a  smile.  The  smile  was  rather  pleasant 
to  contemplate;  a  thing  sufficiently  remarkable  —  for  him. 
"Probably  you  think  I  am  better  qualified  to  tell  you  what 
it  is  not  than  what  it  is ;  how  to  avoid  it  than  how  to  get  it. 
I  can  give  advice,  but  I  cannot  follow  it." 

Sally  smiled  quickly.  "Your  views  are  interesting,"  she 
said.  She  stirred  a  little.  She  did  not  know  how  he  would 
take  what  she  was  about  to  say.  "You  would  —  would  you 
feel  hurt,  father,  if  I  should  offer  you  an  allowance?" 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  before,  he  would  not  have  felt  hurt 
or  embarrassed  in  the  least.  In  fact,  that  was  the  very  thing 
he  had  come  there  for.  At  the  moment,  it  was  different. 
A  flush  crept  into  his  face  slowly. 

"Why  should  I  feel  hurt?  "  His  voice  had  changed.  It  had 
lost  that  intimate  quality  which  it  had  had  during  the  last 
few  minutes,  when  he  had  been  on  the  point  of  telling  Sally 
about  happiness.  "It  is  Uncle  John's  money,  I  suppose? 
Why  should  I  feel  any  compunctions  about  taking  it?  And 


376  CONCERNING  SALLY 

—  er  —  there  are  conditions  incident  to  the  acceptance  of 
this  —  er  —  this  gift,  I  suppose?" 

"I'm  afraid  there  are,"  she  replied;  "at  least,  tacitly 
understood." 

He  considered  for  a  few  moments.  "  I  think,"  he  said  then, 
"that  it  will  conduce  to  happiness,  on  the  whole,  if  we 
are  not  too  tacit  about  those  conditions.  What  are  they?" 

"I  hoped,"  she  answered  gently,  "that  you  would  not 
insist  on  my  repeating  them.  You  must  understand,  from 
what  I  have  said,  what  they  are." 

"I  prefer  that  they  should  be  stated  as  conditions." 

"Very  well."  Sally's  voice  was  harder  and  colder.  "As 
you  like.  You  are  not  to  take  any  steps  whatever,  even  to 
reveal  your  existence  to  my  mother  and  Charlie.  Charlie 
is  not  to  be  allowed  to  play  at  your  house  —  not  to  be  al 
lowed  to  enter  it." 

"But,  Sally,  I  may  be  unable  to  prevent  that,"  he  pro 
tested.  "The  house  is  not  mine.  I  am  only  —  only  an  em 
ploye  and  an  underling.  I  will  do  what  I  can,  but  there  is 
no  use  in  promising  what  I  can't  perform." 

Sally  smiled  a  little.  It  was  something  new  for  him  to 
stick  at  promising. 

"Those  are  the  conditions  which  I  must  make  in  self- 
defense,"  she  said. 

"  May  I  venture  to  ask  what  is  offered  on  the  other  side?  " 

She  made  a  rapid  calculation.  "The  most  that  I  can  offer 
you  is  seven  hundred  a  year.  I  'd  like  to  make  it  a  thousand ; 
but  I  have  mother  and  Charlie  to  take  care  of,  and  I  must 
pay  Patty  what  she  had  let  him  have  —  without  my  know 
ledge,"  she  added  apologetically.  "  I  agree  to  send  you  sixty 
dollars  a  month  on  those  conditions." 

He  was  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  spoke  in  his  old  man 
ner,  lightly. 

"And  if  the  conditions  are  violated?" 

"The  allowance  stops,"  Sally  replied  promptly. 

"And  further?" 

There  was  a  suspicion  of  moisture  again  in  Sally's  eyes. 


CONCERNING  SALLY  377 

"You  make  it  unnecessarily  hard,  father,"  she  said  gently. 
"  I  shall  act  further  if  you  compel  me  to."  She  was  reminded 
of  the  time  when  she  had  asked  his  permission  to  go  to 
dancing-school.  Her  feelings,  she  found,  were  much  the 
same  as  they  had  been  on  that  occasion.  "  I  am  ready  to  put 
it  in  writing  if  you  wish." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  professor  airily.  " It  is  not  necessary, 
Sally.  Your  word  would  be  all  that  anybody  could  require ; 
anybody  who  knew  you." 

"Thank  you,"  she  murmured.  It  was  very  low  and  he 
gave  no  sign  of  having  heard  it. 

Again  he  was  silent ;  then  he  turned  to  her.  A  smile  of 
amusement  curled  his  lip.  "There  is,  at  least,  no  question 
of  sentiment  in  all  this,  is  there,  Sally?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  murmured  more  gently  than 
ever.  She  was  not  looking  at  him,  but  down  at  the  arm  of  her 
chair.  "There  may  be,  but  I  must  not  let  it  interfere  with 
my  judgment  —  in  this  matter.  There  is  mother  to  think 
of." 

"Ah!  I  infer  that  your  mother  would  not  welcome  an 
occasion  for  reuniting  that  family  which  I  mentioned." 

It  was  not  a  question  and  Sally  said  nothing.  After  a 
pause,  the  professor  sighed  and  spoke  again. 

"  I  accept  your  munificent  offer,  Sally.  There  is  nothing 
else  to  do." 

It  was  his  way  —  it  had  always  been  his  way  to  put  the 
giver  in  the  wrong,  by  a  simple  turn  of  words;  to  make  her 
feel  as  if  it  were  he  who  was  conferring  the  favor.  Sally  felt 
somehow  guilty  and  apologetic. 

"Will  you  give  me  your  address?  "  she  asked,  diffidently — 
"the  address  to  which  you  would  like  your  money  sent?" 

He  wrote  on  a  slip  of  paper  with  an  old  stub  of  a  pencil 
which  he  pulled  from  his  pocket  and  handed  her  the  paper. 
She  read  it  and  looked  up  at  him  quickly. 

"Am  I  to  make  them  out  in  this  name?"  she  asked.  "It 
is  not— " 

"  It  is  not  Ladue,"  he  interrupted  deliberately,  but  show- 


378  CONCERNING  SALLY 

ing  more  emotion  than  he  had  shown  hitherto.  "Professor 

Charles  Ladue,  I  would  have  you  know,  Sally,  died  about 

ten  years  ago,  in  extreme  poverty  and  distress  —  of  mind 

as  well  as  of  body." 

Sally's  tears  overflowed  and  dropped,  unheeded.     She 

put  out  her  hand  impulsively,  and  laid  it  upon  his. 
"Oh,  father!"  she  whispered.    "I  am  sorry." 
"I  believe  you  are,"  he  said.    He  rose.    "Now  I  will  go 

back  to  obscurity.     Don't  be  too  sorry  for  me,"  he  added 

quickly.    "  I  cultivate  it." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MRS.  LADUE  asked  no  troublesome  questions.  Per 
haps  she  thought  that  she  had  no  need  to ;  that  she 
knew,  as  well  as  if  she  had  been  told,  what  Charlie 
had  been  doing.  Sally  had  been  to  see  about  it,  of  course, 
and  now  it  was  all  right,  equally  of  course.  Sally  always 
remedied  wrongs  as  well  as  anybody  could  and  made  them 
right  again.  It  was  a  great  comfort.  And  Mrs.  Ladue  sighed 
happily  and  smiled. 

Sally  thought  the  smile  somewhat  ill-timed,  but  she  was 
glad  enought  that  her  mother  felt  like  smiling.  That  smile 
exasperated  her  a  little.  She  had  just  come  back  and  the 
past  twenty-four  hours  had  been  rather  crowded.  But  her 
mother  did  not  know  that.  And  she  was  glad  enough  that 
her  mother  had  not  asked  questions,  for,  if  she  had  been 
asked,  she  would  have  lied,  if  necessary,  for  the  first  time 
in  her  life.  Her  mother  did  make  a  remark  which,  as  Sally 
thought,  showed  that  she  knew.  Sally  had  her  hand  on  the 
door  and  was  on  the  point  of  going  out. 

She  turned.  "Why,  mother!"  she  exclaimed.  "So  you 
knew,  all  the  time,  what  the  trouble  was!"  She  laughed  in 
derision;  at  herself,  chiefly.  "And  I  took  such  pains  to  keep 
the  truth  from  you!" 

"  I  did  n't  know,  Sally.  I  only  guessed.  It's  what  I  have 
been  afraid  of  for  years  —  the  first  thing  I  should  have  looked 
for.  What  else  could  you  expect,  with  his  — " 

She  did  not  go  on.  Sally,  fresh  from  that  interview  with 
her  father,  —  it  had  happened  only  that  morning,  —  was 
almost  overcome  by  the  memory  of  it. 

"Why,  Sally,  dear ! "  cried  her  mother.  "  I  did  n't  suppose 
you  felt  so.  Don't,  dear.  It's  nothing  that  we  can  help  — 
the  wanting  to,  I  mean.  And  I  'm  sure  you  have  done  more 
than  anybody  else  could." 


38o  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Sally  regained  her  self-control  with  an  effort.  "I  don't 
feel  so  bad  about  Charlie.  I  've  done  all  that  I  can  —  now. 
But  it's  rather  taken  it  out  of  me,"  she  added,  with  a  ner 
vous  little  laugh. 

"Of  course,  dear.  I  wish  I  were  good  for  anything.  I 
know,"  she  said,  laughing  nervously,  in  her  turn,  "that  I 
ought  to  feel  troubled.  But  I  can't,  Sally,  dear.  As  long 
as  — "  she  hesitated  and  flushed.  "  I  am  rather  ashamed  to 
say  it,  but  as  long  as  —  as  your  father  has  n't  turned  up,  I 
can't  be  anything  but  contented  and  happy.  I  find  that  I  've 
had  an  absurd  feeling  —  utterly  absurd,  dear,  I  know  — 
that  he  was  about  to.  It's  only  since  you  were  on  the  way 
that  that  dread  has  left  me  and  I  've  felt  contented  —  so 
happy  and  contented.  The  change  came  with  curious  sud 
denness,  about  the  time  your  train  must  have  left." 

Sally  had  turned  away  sharply.  "  I  'm  very  glad,  mother," 
she  replied  in  a  stifled  little  voice.  "I'm  glad  you  can  feel 
so  happy.  There's  no  need  to  feel  that  dread  any  more, 
I  think.  I'm  going  out  now.  Don't  be  worried  if  I  am 
late." 

"Going  to  walk,  Sally?"  Mrs.  Ladue  asked  diffidently. 
"You  had  better  tell  me  what  direction  you  will  take  — 
in  case  Fox  comes  in,  you  know.  He  always  wants  to  know 
your  direction  if  you  are  at  all  late." 

"  I  'm  going  out  to  see  him,"  Sally  returned.  "  I  promised 
to  tell  him  about  it." 

If  Sally  had  stopped  to  think  of  it  at  all  she  might  have 
wondered  why  her  mother  seemed  so  glad  that  she  was  go 
ing  to  Fox's.  But  her  mind  was  taken  up  with  thoughts  of  her 
father,  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  and  everybody  else 
—  but  one,  and  Sally  was  not  aware  of  the  exception.  Fox 
was  the  only  person  she  was  free  to  tell  about  her  father  and 
she  was  looking  forward  to  it.  When  she  had  shared  her 
knowledge  —  with  somebody  —  it  would  be  less  of  a  burden. 
It  never  occurred  to  her  that  he  might  not  be  glad  to  know. 
Was  n't  he  always  glad  to  know  of  anything  which  concerned 
her  —  anything  at  all?  And  as  Sally  thought  these  thoughts 


CONCERNING  SALLY  381 

a  vivid  blush  spread  over  her  face  and  her  throat.  It  was  a 
pity  that  there  was  nobody  to  see  it. 

Fox  met  her  at  the  door.  There  was  a  questioning  smile 
on  his  face  as  he  took  her  hand.  He  led  the  way  into  his 
office  and  Sally  sank  into  an  armchair  that  stood  by  the 
table.  Fox  drew  another  chair  near  and  sat  down.  Then  he 
took  a  little  slip  of  paper  from  his  pocket  and  laid  it  by  her 
elbow. 

"The  rent,"  he  said. 

Sally  laughed,  but  she  let  it  lie  there. 

"Well?"  Fox  asked. 

"Well!"  She  found  that  she  had  very  little  to  say  and 
that  little  did  not  come  readily.  "  It  is  nice  to  get  into  a  chair 
that  is  comfortable  without  swallowing  you  whole  —  as  if 
it  would  never  give  you  up."  She  patted  an  arm  of  the  chair 
nervously.  "I  like  these  low  arms." 

"Yes,"  said  Fox,  "so  do  I.  And  —  there  is  no  hurry,  Sally. 
Would  you  like  to  rest  there  —  just  sit  and  be  comfortable 
for  a  while?  You  can  have  had  very  little  real  rest  for  some 
time  and  you  must  have  had  much  to  tire  you.  Just  exactly 
as  you  please.  I  am  entirely  at  your  service  —  as  I  am  al 
ways,"  he  added,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  can  be  attending  to  my 
work,  and  you  could  begin  whenever  you  were  ready,  or 
I  will  give  my  undivided  attention  now." 

"Have  you  got  work,"  Sally  began  hastily,  "that — " 

"  Oh,  there 's  no  hurry  about  it."  And  Fox  smiled  quietly. 
"But  there's  enough  to  do.  Routine,  mostly." 

"Could  you  do  it  with  me  here?  Would  n't  you  — " 

"  Could  n't  I ! "  Fox  smiled  again.  "  It  adds  a  great  deal 
to  my  peace  of  mind  to  have  you  in  the  same  room  with 
me,  even  when  you  are  n't  saying  anything.  And  peace  of 
mind,  Sally,  is — " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  said  Sally,  interrupting.  "Well,  let's  try 
it.  You  go  to  your  desk  and  work  and  I  '11  sit  here  and  rest. 
And  when  the  spirit  moves  me  I'll  speak." 

So  Fox  went  to  his  desk  and  Sally  watched  him  as  he  be 
came  more  and  more  absorbed;  and,  as  she  watched,  there 


382  CONCERNING   SALLY 

came  a  light  into  her  eyes  which  had  not  been  there  before. 
Still  she  said  nothing ;  only  leaned  her  head  back  against  the 
chair  and  watched.  Once  he  looked  back  at  her  and  smiled. 
He  almost  caught  that  light  —  that  look  in  her  eyes,  but 
Sally  managed  to  quench  it  in  time. 

"Resting,  Sally?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded  and  he  turned  back  to  his  desk.  The  work  did 
not  seem  difficult.  Sally  wondered,  and  in  her  wonder  she 
forgot,  for  the  moment. 

"Couldn't  I  do  that,  Fox?" 

"To  be  sure  you  could,"  he  answered  quickly,  "if  you 
only  would.  It  is  n't  half  as  difficult  as  what  you  do  at  your 
office." 

He  had  not  looked  around.  Sally  was  glad  of  that,  for  she 
was  blushing  —  at  her  own  temerity,  she  told  herself.  Again 
there  was  silence  in  the  room,  except  for  the  rustling  of 
papers. 

"  Fox,"  said  Sally,  after  five  minutes  of  this,  "what  would 
you  do  with  Charlie  now?  Would  you  send  him  back  to  col 
lege?" 

He  put  his  papers  down  and  turned.  "Does  the  spirit 
move  you  to  talk  now?" 

Again  she  nodded.  "  I  think  so.  The  little  rest  has  done 
me  good.  And  I  should  like  to  have  your  advice." 

He  came  to  the  chair  near  hers.  "What  happened  after 
I  left  you  last  night?" 

"  Nothing  in  particular,"  she  answered.  "  I  don't  remem 
ber  that  we  said  anything  of  consequence.  I  had  a  talk  with 
Charlie,  early  this  morning."  She  gave  him  the  substance 
of  it;  if  it  could  be  said  to  have  any  substance.  "This  is  the 
council  of  war,"  she  added,  smiling  somewhat  wearily,  "that 
is  to  settle  his  fate." 

Fox  sat  contemplating  the  wall.  "It  seems  rather  hard 
to  say  'no'  to  your  question,"  he  said  at  last,  slowly,  "but 
I  should  be  inclined  to  advise  it.  Have  you  any  assurance 
—  besides  Charlie's  promise,  that  is  —  that  he  will  not  re 
turn  to  his  bad  habits?" 


CONCERNING  SALLY  383 

"No,  none  of  consequence.  I  am  afraid  he  would.  If  —  if 
he  went  into  the  office  with  me  now,  I  could  keep  an  eye  on 
him.  That  is,"  she  amended  rather  hopelessly,  "I  could  try 
to.  Charlie  would  probably  have  no  trouble  in  deceiving 
me  if  he  tried  to.  I  thought  that  Henrietta  might  be  willing 
to  help  about  him.  She  might  be  able  to  do  more  with  him 
than  I  could." 

"Of  course  she  would  be  willing." 

"She  seems  to  have  influence  with  Charlie  and  I  should 
think  she  would  be  willing  to  use  it  for  his  good.  I  have  n't 
any  influence,"  she  continued,  "except  through  his  fear  of 
being  found  out.  I  don't  know  how  it  happened  —  that 
does  n't  matter  especially  —  but  he  does  n't  trust  me.  I  'm 
sorry,  but  that 's  the  way  it  is."  She  sighed  and  looked  away. 

Fox  did  not  like  to  have  her  look  away.  He  much  preferred 
to  have  those  gray  eyes  look  trustingly  into  his. 

"You  may  sure  that  it's  through  no  fault  of  yours, 
Sally." 

"Perhaps,"  Sally  returned,  looking  back  at  him.  "Per 
haps,  but  I  'm  not  so  sure.  Very  likely  it  is  my  fault.  At  any 
rate,  it  can't  be  helped.  That's  the  way  it's  gone."  She 
stopped  and  seemed  to  be  considering ;  wondering,  perhaps, 
how  she  should  have  done.  She  could  not  have  done  differ 
ently,  being  herself.  There  was  always,  at  the  bottom  of  her 
heart,  an  utter  contempt  for  —  well,  she  would  not  com 
plete  that  thought.  And  she  sighed  again  and  resumed. 
Fox  had  said  nothing. 

"If  we  kept  him  in  college,  there  would  be  relapses,  — 
inevitably,  I  think,  —  and  I  should  only  have  to  do  this 
over  again.  Not  that  I  should  mind,"  she  interrupted  her 
self  hastily,  "if  it  would  do  any  good.  But  every  relapse 
would  make  it  harder.  There  seems  to  be  no  escape.  I  think 
he'll  have  to  come  out.  That,  I  understand,  is  the  sense  of 
the  meeting?  "  She  looked  at  Fox  again,  smiling  whimsically. 

"That  is  my  advice,"  said  he,  "if  I  am  privileged  to  give 
advice  on  the  subject.  I  'm  sorry  to  be  seeming  to  take  away 
his  opportunities.  His  regret  will  grow  as  he  grows  older." 


384  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Sally  shook  her  head.  "He  doesn't  seem  to  have  any 
regret." 

"He  will  have." 

"He  may.  I  should  think  he  would.  But  it 's  his  own  fault 
and  that 's  all  there  is  to  say  about  Charlie.  I '  ve  done  the 
best  I  could  and  I  don't  mean  to  worry  about  it  any  more. 
I  '11  have  him  come  into  the  office  to-morrow  and  I  think  he  '11 
be  glad  to.  It's  a  change,  you  know." 

Sally  looked  at  Fox  and  smiled  again;  but  if  there  was 
anything  humorous  in  her  smile  there  was  much  more  that 
was  scornful. 

"And  now,  Fox,"  Sally  continued,  very  low  —  he  could 
hardly  hear  the  words  —  and  looking  away  again,  "  I  have 
something  else  to  tell  you.  It  is  rather  terrible,  I  think." 
Her  voice  was  not  steady  and  she  stopped,  trying  to  control 
it.  She  did  not  want  to  cry;  she  did  not  mean  to.  "I  saw 
—  "  She  choked,  but  went  on  bravely.  "  I  saw  my  father 
this  morning." 

"What!"  He  cried  in  a  voice  as  low  as  her  own.  The  ef 
fect  of  her  words  was  as  great  as  she  could  have  expected, 
if  she  thought  of  the  effect  at  all.  He  put  out  his  hand  in 
stinctively;  but  Sally  withdrew  hers.  "Where,  Sally?" 

"He  came  to  the  hotel  to  see  me."  She  spoke  in  a  mono 
tonous  voice.  She  found  that  her  only  hope  lay  in  using 
that  voice.  She  might  begin  to  cry  at  any  moment.  If  she 
should  —  she  was  almost  worn  out  and  she  was  afraid.  In 
that  same  monotonous  voice  she  gave  every  detail  of  the 
interview.  She  did  not  omit  anything.  It  was  all  burned  into 
her  memory.  Fox  did  not  speak.  When  she  came  to  an  end  of 
her  account  she  found  that  even  her  monotonous  voice  could 
not  save  her.  She  was  perilously  near  to  tears  and  her  chin 
would  quiver  in  spite  of  all  that  she  could  do. 

"Sally!  Sally!"  said  Fox  tenderly.  He  saw  her  condition. 
"Don't  tell  me  any  more  now  if  it  distresses  you." 

"I  may  as  well,"  she  replied  as  well  as  she  could.  She 
smiled  up  at  him,  but  her  chin  quivered  more  and  more.  "  I 
may  as  well  —  now  as  well  as  another  time.  For  —  for  I  've 


CONCERNING  SALLY  385 

got  to  tell  you,  Fox."  She  looked  at  him  imploringly.  "  I  Ve 
got  to  tell  somebody,  and  the  somebody  is  always  you."  She 
smiled  again  tearfully,  and  looked  away  again.  Fox  could 
not  stand  many  such  smiles.  He  would  —  would  do  some 
thing,  he  did  not  know  just  what;  but  he  sat  gazing  at  her 
with  infinite  tenderness  and  pity,  saying  nothing. 

"My  father  is  employed  in  —  in  the  house  that  we  went 
to,"  she  resumed  at  last;  "the  house  where  Charlie  has  been 
playing.  He  deals  the  cards  —  or  something.  He  must  have 
known!"  Two  tears  fell  into  her  lap.  "To  think  that  my 
father  has  fallen  to  that !  —  has  fallen  so  low !  And  when 
Charlie  said  that  to  him,"  she  cried  desperately,  "it  almost 
b — broke  my  heart." 

Her  voice  shook  and  suddenly  she  bowed  her  head  upon  her 
arms,  which  were  resting  on  the  table,  and  broke  into  a  pas 
sion  of  tears ;  wild  weeping,  such  as  Fox  had  never  known  — 
had  never  supposed  could  come  from  her.  She  had  always 
seemed  so  beautifully  poised,  so  steady  and  so  sturdy;  like 
a  rock,  on  which  others  built  their  foundations.  But  the 
rod  had  smitten  her  and  the  springs  were  unbound.  He  had 
a  wild  desire  to  take  her  in  his  arms. 

But  he  did  n't  —  then.  He  only  murmured  something 
meant  to  be  comforting.  God  knew  he  wanted  to  comfort 
her ;  wanted  to  as  he  had  never  wanted  anything  in  his  life 
before.  He  would,  if  he  only  knew  how.  But  the  wild  weep 
ing  had  given  way  to  a  subdued  sobbing. 

"And  —  it  —  it  aim — most  b — broke  my  heart,"  she 
sobbed,  "to  re — refuse  what  he  asked.  B — but  I  had  to  do 
it.  I  h — had  to  do  it,  Fox.  I  c — could  n't  do  anything  else." 
She  caught  her  breath.  She  could  not  go  on  for  a  minute. 

Only  an  inarticulate  murmur  came  from  Fox. 

"Father  was  such  a  pathetic  figure!"  Sally  went  on  a 
soon  as  she  could  speak.  "Of  course  I  know  that  he  is  not 
always  so  —  that  he  is  seldom  so.  There  were  mother  and 
Charlie  to  think  of .  But  it  seemed  so  terrible!  And  he  was 
so  patient  under  Charlie's  —  treatment  —  his  own  father! 
I  can't  get  him  out  of  my  — " 


386  CONCERNING  SALLY 

Her  wild  weeping,  restrained  for  a  moment,  broke  out 
again. 

"Sally!"  Fox  murmured,  leaning  forward  and  laying  a 
hand  upon  her  knee.  "Sally,  dear!" 

There  was  a  great  distress  and  a  great  longing  in  his  look, 
but  Sally  had  her  head  down  and  she  did  not  see  it.  But  it 
was  in  his  voice  and  she  may  have  heard  it.  He  rose  impul 
sively  from  his  chair  and  went  to  her  quickly  —  it  was  only 
a  step  —  and  he  sat  on  the  arm  of  her  chair  and  put  his  arm 
around  her. 

"Sally,  dear!"  he  implored.  "Don'tcryso!  Please  don't." 

She  did  not  repulse  him,  as  he  had  feared  she  would, 
gently,  of  course,  but  firmly;  but  she  did  not  yield  either.  It 
was  as  if,  for  the  moment,  he  was  nothing  to  her  —  nothing 
more  than  a  brother;  not  her  brother,  thank  heaven!  She 
only  sobbed,  there,  for  some  minutes  —  in  his  arms.  That 
was  enough. 

She  became  more  quiet  in  time.  She  still  had  her  head 
down  upon  one  arm,  but  she  was  feeling  up  her  sleeve  and 
under  her  belt,  searching  for  something. 

"Forgive  me,  F — Fox,"  she  said,  "  I  did  n't  mean  to  do  it, 
but  I  'm  t — tired  out  and  —  and  I  can't  find  my  handkerchief.' 
She  laughed  a  little  hysterically.  "Have  you  got  one  to 
1 — lend  me,  Fox?  I  c — can't  lift  my  head  be — because 
I  'm  crying  and  I  've  cried  all  over  your  table  and  into  your 
chair—" 

"Drat  the  table!  What  do  you  suppose  I  care  about  it, 
Sally?" 

"You  —  you  ought  to.  I — it 's  a  very  pretty  table." 

"I  value  it  only  because  it  holds  your  tears."  Fox  was 
unfolding  a  handkerchief.  It  was  a  very  large  handkerchief. 
He  put  it  into  her  seeking  hand.  "  I  remember  another  oc 
casion  when  you  had  to  borrow  a  handkerchief,"  he  said. 
"Do  you  remember  it,  Sally?" 

She  nodded  and  began  to  mop  her  eyes.  "Mercy!  I  — 
I  did  n't  want  a  sheet,  Fox,"  she  said. 

Fox  smiled.  "  I  did  n't  know.  You  might."  His  voice  was 


CONCERNING  SALLY  387 

not  steady  as  he  went  on.  "Sally,"  he  whispered,  "I  —  I 
want  you.  I  want  you!" 

She  gave  another  hysterical  laugh.  "Well,"  she  cried, 
"anybody  w — would  th — think  that  y — you  had  me." 

"Have  I,  Sally  dear?"  he  asked,  still  in  that  low  whisper. 
"Have  I? "  He  bent  over  her  neck.  That  was  the  only  part 
of  her  that  he  could  reach  —  that  neck  with  its  little  ten 
drils  of  waving  hair. 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  cried  hastily.  "Don't, Fox.  Youhaven't 
got  me  —  yet,"  she  added  in  a  whisper  which  was  barely 
audible.  But  Fox  heard  it.  "  It  —  it  is  n't  because  —  because 
you  are  sorry  for  me?"  she  asked  in  a  very  small  voice. 

"No,"  Fox  was  smiling  again;  but,  as  Sally  had  her  eyes 
hidden,  of  course  she  did  not  see  it.  "  I  am  sorry  for  you  as 
I  can  be,  but  that  is  n't  the  reason.  Guess  again." 

"Are  you  sure,  Fox?  Very  sure?"  she  asked.  "Say  that 
you  are,  Fox,"  she  whispered.  "Can't  you  please  say  that 
you  are?" 

"I  am  sure." 

"And  it  is  n't  be — because  m — my  father,"  the  small  voice 
asked  again,  "because  my  father  is  a  — " 

"No.  That  isn't  the  reason  either.  I'm  quite  sure, 
Sally." 

Sally's  head  was  still  down  on  the  table  and  she  was  wiping 
away  her  tears. 

"  But,  Fox,"  she  protested, "  you  ought  not  to,  you  know." 

"  I  ought,"  he  replied  indignantly.  "  I  ought  to  have  done 
it  long  ago.  Why  not?" 

Sally  smiled  at  the  table.  "  M — my  father,"  she  returned, 
not  at  all  dismally,  "would  disgrace  you  —  very  likely. 
He 'sad—" 

He  interrupted  her.  "I  don't  care  what  he  is,  Sally,"  he 
said  softly.  "  I  don't  care  about  anything  —  but  this." 

"And  my  brother  is  a  gambler,"  she  went  on,  in  a  dis 
gracefully  happy  voice,  considering  what  she  was  saying, 
—  "with  not  much  hope  that  he  will  be  anything  else.  I 
don't  deceive  myself." 


388  CONCERNING  SALLY 

"Only  the  greater  reason,"  he  said,  more  softly  yet.  "I 
want  you,  Sally." 

"Do  you?  After  that?" 

"You  may  believe  it  —  dearest." 

She  gave  a  sudden,  happy  little  cry.  "Oh,  I  believe  it.  I 
want  to  believe  it.  I  have  wanted  to  for  more  than  two  years 

—  ever  —  since  the  night  of  the  fire."  She  lifted  her  head,  the 
tears  shining  in  her  eyes;  something  else  shining  there. 
"Then  I  don't  care  for  —  for   Margaret  —  or  —  or  any 
body  else;  or  any — any — thing" — her   voice  sank  to   a 
whisper  once  more  —  "but  you." 

Sally  raised  her  eyes  slowly  to  his.  They  were  shy  eyes, 
and  very  tender.  And  Fox  looked  into  their  depths  and  saw — 
but  what  he  saw  concerns  only  him  and  Sally.  He  seemed 
satisfied  with  what  he  saw.  He  held  her  closer.  Sally's  eyes 
filled  slowly  and  overflowed  at  last,  and  she  shut  them. 

"I'm  crying  because  I'm  so  happy,"  she  whispered. 

Fox  bent  and  kissed  her.  "I  don't  care  for  Margaret  or 
for  anybody  else  but  you,"  he  murmured,  "and  I  never 
have  cared  for  anybody  else.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 
Who  is  Margaret?" 

Sally  opened  her  eyes.  "You  don't  know?"  she  asked  in 
surprise. 

"  I  don't  know.  You  have  spoken  of  her  before  —  as  if  I 
ought  to  know  all  about  her.  Who  is  she  and  why  must  I 
know  about  her?" 

She  did  not  answer  at  once.  Her  eyes  were  deep  and  shin 
ing  and,  her  eyes  searching  his,  she  put  up  her  arms — slowly 

—  slowly  —  about  his  neck.  "Oh,  Fox,  dear!"  she  cried 
softly.  "Oh,  Fox,  dear!  And  you  don't  know !" 

She  laughed  low  and  happily.  Then  she  drew  his  head 
down  —  it  came  readily  enough  — 

When  Sally  emerged,  a  minute  or  two  later,  she  was  blush 
ing.  She  seemed  burning  up.  She  hid  her  burning  cheeks  in 
Fox's  shoulder. 

"Fox,"  she  murmured  from  her  hiding-place,  "don't  you 
remember  Margaret  Savage?" 


CONCERNING  SALLY  389 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  answered  quite  cheerfully.  "She  is  very 
pretty  now  —  very  attractive  to  the  young  men  —  but  she 's 
as  much  of  a  fool  as  ever." 

Sally  laughed  again.  "And  Henrietta  told  me,"  she  said, 
"that  you  might  succumb.  So  you  see  that,  when  you  spoke 
of  getting  married  — " 

"Why,  I  meant  you,  all  the  time." 

"Ye — es,  but  I  did  n't  know  that  —  and  —  and  I  thought 
that  you  meant  Margaret  and  —  and  Henrietta's  remarks 
set  me  to  thinking  and  then  —  then,  pretty  soon,  I  knew  that 
—  that  I  loved  you,  Fox,  and  I  was  very  unhappy.  Oh,  Fox, 
I  was  unhappy!" 

" I 'm  sorry,  darling.    I 'm  very  sorry.   Sally!" 

She  looked  up  at  him  and,  as  she  looked,  the  red  once 
more  mounted  slowly,  flooding  her  throat  and  then  her 
cheeks.  Again  she  put  her  arms  up  and  drew  his  head  down. 

The  crimson  flood  had  left  her  face  and  there  was  in  it 
only  a  lovely  color  as  she  lay  back  in  his  arms.  "Don't  you 
love  me,  Fox?" 

He  laughed.  "Love  you!  Love  you!  I  should  think  it 
was — " 

"Then,"  she  asked,  "why  don't  you  say  so,  sir?  You 
have  n't  said  so  yet  —  not  once."  His  arms  tightened  about 
her.  "Close,  Fox,  dear!"  she  whispered.  "Hold  me  closer. 
I  don't  want  to  get  away,  ever." 

It  was  getting  late  when  they  finally  stood  at  a  window 
from  which  they  could  see  the  little  cream-colored  house  — 
they  had  got  as  far  as  that  —  and  the  grove  behind  it. 

"  I  want  to  open  that  house,"  Fox  was  saying.  "  I  want  to 
live  in  it." 

"/  want  to  live  in  it,"  Sally  said. 

"But,"  he  returned  quickly,  "you  know  what  must  happen 
first.  How  soon,  Sally?" 

"Just  as  soon  as  ever  I  can  manage  it,  dear.  You  may 
depend  upon  that.  And  now  I  must  go.  I  'm  disgracefully 
late,  even  now." 

She  hastily  rearranged  her  hair,  which,  strangely  enough, 


390  CONCERNING  SALLY 

was  much  disordered,  and  she  put  on  her  hat.  Then  she  stood 
before  him. 

"Now,  don't  you  be  troubled  about  your  father,  Sally, 
or  about  Charlie,  or  anything.  We  will  take  care  of  those 
troubles  together." 

"As  if  you  had  n't  always  tried  to  take  those  troubles  off 
my  shoulders! "  She  raised  her  radiant  eyes  to  his.  "If  this 
is  what  you  meant  by  'paying  in  kind,'  you  shall  be  paid, 
Fox.  Oh,  you  shall  be  paid.  And,  dear,  nothing  troubles  me 
now.  Do  you  understand?  Nothing.  Now  I  must  run. 
Don't  come  with  me.  People  could  n't  help  noticing  some 
thing.  Good  night." 

Once  more  she  kissed  him,  and  she  was  gone,  walking 
buoyantly  and  turning  more  than  once  to  wave  to  him. 
Fox's  eyes  were  wet  as  he  watched  her. 

"Bless  you,  Sally!   God  go  with  you!" 

God  go  with  you,  Sally! 


THE   END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


OLD  HARBOR 


By  WILLIAM  JOHN  HOPKINS 


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